A Deer's Hart
by MiloOfTheKey
Summary: Dr. Jane Hart has been with the BAU from the beginning, before Emily and Elle or even Reid and Morgan. But somehow, no one seems to know anything about her. Whenever she does something odd, Hotch and Gideon simply trade cryptic glances. But even the best pretenders can't hold against profilers forever, no matter how hard they try. (Nonlinear, AU Fem!OC) CHAPTERS GET LONGER.
1. 01

"Derek, come here."

Morgan whips around, tension rising in his shoulders at Jane's calm, even tone. Perpetually, irritatingly even tone.

It jarrs him, even now, how she sounds just the same when she's ordering coffee, disecting a bloody corpse, or talking to him in a police interrogation cell.

But like lightning, the jarred feeling quickly switches to anger, and he has to work to suppress the urge to shove her right back out the door.

"Oh, now you're here?" He gets out through gritted teeth. "First time I see someone other than Gordinski or his little sidekick - or Hotch and Gideon - and it's _you_? What, they send medical examiners in to do interrogations now? Cuz you'll 'get me to talk'? What is this, man?"

Jane levels her gaze at him, eyes steady and her overall demeanor completely unaffected by his outburst. She slips off the strap of her satchel and sets is down on the steel table with finality, pulling the stiff metal chair aside as she gestured for him to sit. "Derek. Come here."

"What, that's all you're going to say?" He demands, turning away only to whip back again - completely ignoring the proffered seat. "Don't you want to start asking me about my personal life? Or do you want to look through my _expunged criminal record_ again?"

"Derek. Come here."

Morgan faces Jane full on for the first time since she walked in, and she meets his eyes. That alone is enough to startle him - pause his anger long enough to take in the fact that Jane was _making eye contact_ \- before she averts her gaze again, switching her focus back onto the chair and her satchel.

"Derek." She repeats.

He sits.

He knows the drill. Has gone over it a thousand times in hundreds of different locales, from police stations to hotel lobbies to the bullpen at Quantico; he doesn't even need to be prompted at this point. Even in his rage at the absurdity, the horribleness, the unjustness, _unfairness_, of the situation - being profiled by his own colleagues over the murder of a _kid_\- isn't enough make him deny Jane's simple request. Not completely.

He offers his wrist.

The tips of Jane's cool fingers flit over his skin, resting on his pulse just next to his watch. She closes her eyes to count. He sits in silence.

"This isn't necessary, you know." Derek reminds her once her eyes open once again, as she removes her fingers. "I am in the same condition you left me in."

"Except for the lack of sleep, food, water, and increased stress and sympathetic nervous arousal, you mean." Jane corrects dryly, as usual only showing emotion when one of her 'patients' refuses to take care of themselves.

Silence reigns as she watches him carefully, checking his eyes and monitoring his breathing.

"I thought you'd have questions. Everyone seems to," He finally comments when he can't stand it any longer, breaking the still air. Jane doesn't even look up, too busy examining a scrape he got from playing ball with the kids at the Youth Center.

"I'm not a profiler."

"I know you're not," Morgan corrects himself, irritation rising again. "But you're still far more experienced than _Gordinski _out there."

"Derek," Jane starts, her gaze resting somewhere above his right eyebrow. "I'm not a profiler. I'm a doctor. I'm your doctor."

Morgan sits back, watching as Jane begins to unload a water bottle and wrapped sandwich from her bag. He takes them silently, watching as she stood up to leave.

"So that's it?" He asks incredulously, stung. "You check my blood pressure, make sure I'm not bleeding out anywhere, and you're gone? Why did you even come in here?"

Jane pauses, glancing back. She considers his words, adjusting her bag.

"What's my middle name?" She asks, studying him. Gauging him.

Morgan shifts, surprised at the abrupt change in topic. It takes him a moment to even process the question, to answer. "I dunno, you never told me."

Jane nods, her head bobbing lightly as she studies the one-way mirror like a particularly bloody crime scene. "And my birthday? The first person I ever kissed? My favorite color. How I take my coffee. My allergies. My favorite book." She shifts, "The secret that I never told anyone, ever, because it changed me so irrevocably that even I can't figure out where I start and the secret ends."

His breath catches, and they lock eyes yet again. Her gaze is hard, yes, but understanding - understanding like no one has ever been before. Not about this.

Only the kids that … he, _Buford_ … took to his cabin had understood him like this.

Derek didn't like what that meant about the Doc.

"That's the thing, Derek." Jane says, turning her back as her flyaways caught the light. "Sometimes asking questions isn't the right thing to do."

She pauses right at the door, hand on the knob.

"I'm here, Derek, as the doctor you need and the friend you might not want. That's all I can say."

The door creaks behind her as it shuts him back into the room, alone with pictures of dead children and the words of a doctor and a friend.

And then Gordinski storms his way back in, and the moment is gone as irritation and anger comes back full force the moment the useless detective started running his mouth.

* * *

**For Reference:**

Updated list: As of Chapter 47

22 - Pre-Series, Pre-BAU  
29 - Pre-Series, Early BAU  
42-44 – Pre-Series, Early BAU  
04 - 1x16  
03 - 1x22  
01 - 2x12  
06 - 2x13  
02 - 2x10  
05 - 2x10  
09 - 2x15  
08 - 2x21  
10 - 3x2  
11 - 3x6  
07 - NEC  
12 - 3x19  
13 - 3x20  
14 - 4x3  
17 - 4x6  
23 - 4x18  
16 - 4x25  
24 - 5x01  
25 - 5x02  
26 - 5x09  
27 - 5x13  
18-20 - 5x13.5  
21 - 5x14  
28 - 5x20  
30-40 - 6x4.5-7x1.5  
45, 47, 46 - between 6x24 and 7x01  
15 - 7x4  
41 – 8x.05-8x1.5


	2. 02

Emily would compare her to a whirlwind, but that was too violent. Too uncontrolled.

She had first met Dr. Jane Hart nearly a full two days after her paperwork was officially accepted by Agent Hotchner, and it wasn't orthodox by any means.

They hadn't had any cases yet, but Agent Jareau - JJ - was showing Emily the ropes, making sure she knew their protocols and who does what and what goes where. Because of that there was no reason to gather as a whole, so everyone was introduced on the fly.

First, JJ. Then their Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia, in her full colorful enthusiasm, quickly followed by a formal introduction to Dr. Reid, who was both walking oxymoron and encyclopedia, it seemed.

When Emily finally met Dr. Hart, she was just finishing up the rest of her paperwork while sat perched on the edge of her desk.

There was no way to describe her. When the woman first walked in, Emily clocked her immediately and thought that she was a local detective or a consultant of some sort. She was dressed professionally, yes, but not like JJ did or even like Garcia. JJ was formal and clean, designed to look credible and trusting yet still professional and attractive. Garcia was all dresses and heels and color, but everything was of good quality and fashionable, however odd.

Black long sleeve turtleneck tucked into black belt on black slacks tucked into black boots; thick black hair tied messily up into a haphazard knot on the back of her head. Yet the excess of the pigment wasn't goth or punk by any means, just dark.

Excluding her olive skin tone, the only spot of color on her was a suit vest in a dark burgundy - that looked like it had seen far better days - worn over her shirt like an afterthought. Slung across her shoulder was a black satchel and clutched in her hands (covered in black fingerless gloves which exposed her black glossy fingernails) was a clipboard she was rapidly writing on as she wove through the desks and agents expertly, headed their way.

Stopping right in front of Emily.

"This is your medical form." The woman had stated without prompting or introduction - shoving the clipboard into Emily's hands before she could even fully put her own paperwork down. Her voice was somehow flatter and less emotional than even Agent Hotchner's: "You need to fill this out completely before you can enter the field. This -" she continued, reaching over to flip to a later page in the deceptively thick pile, "- is about your mandatory physical evaluation. This must be completed before your first month in our department has been completed. You may either use a doctor of your choice, a Bureau certified medic, or myself. If you choose to use a doctor of your own they must be vetted for quality so you'll contact me -" reaching over again, pointing out a yellow sticky note "- using the first email address. If not, use the second number or email to schedule an appointment with either me or another doctor of the selection - _here_."

Stunned and baffled, Emily could only watch as the woman pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of her satchel and scribbled down something before tearing the sheet free and passing it over. "Also on here is where you can submit these forms. Also: any injuries in the field must be checked out, no exceptions. I have the authority to pull you from the field immediately, mid-case if need be, to ensure the health of my patients and colleagues. Any questions can be directed either to me or Agents Hotchner or Gideon. Any pressing?"

Emily gaped unattractively and rather fish-like for a minute there as the woman waited neutrally for her to get her bearings after the onslaught. She gathered herself, glanced down at the clipboard and steno sheet she'd been gripping tightly, and back up at the woman.

"Who are you?" Emily asks (squeaks) once she finds her voice, trying to keep the confusion and surprise out of her voice. She corrects herself rapidly: "I'm sorry, that was rude. But you never introduced herself."

'_Great job, Emily_.' She scolded herself internally. '_Insult a senior agent or doctor or whoever she is the first time you meet them._'

"Apologies," The woman stated with no inflection. "Dr. Hart. They call me Jane."

And then with the same measured control, she turned on her heel and Hurricane Hart left the bullpen.

Emily turned around slowly at the sound of Reid's poorly contained laughter at her expense - not even realizing that he had been behind her the entire time.

"Oh laugh it up, Reid. Laugh. It. Up."


	3. 03

The Fisher King hadn't targeted Jane.

It had been bothering Hotch for hours. Through Gideon and Elle and poems and book codes and JJ and Morgan being on the road, that one little fact still remained. Incessant.

Hotch knew that he was distracted, that his brain was desperately trying to scramble for something to hold onto - _anything _\- to distance himself from Elle bleeding out on an operating room table. His floundering head had latched onto the first thing that it had seen: Jane sitting straight backed in the stiff waiting room chair while Gideon paced restlessly.

_But The Fisher King hadn't targeted Jane. _

"No, he didn't." Jane affirmed, and Aaron had realized that he had spoken aloud. He was more tired than he thought.

"Why not?" He finds himself asking the air, not really expecting an answer from the enigmatic woman. He got one anyway.

"I didn't get anything, but nor did Garcia." She commented lightly, flipping through the evidence idlily. "Unless you count a system hack - but that doesn't mean anything. We were both specified in the Unsub's video."

"But Garcia doesn't go out into the field. You do." Hotch countered, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "If he followed us he would've seen you working. Studied you."

"Yet I only do so to see the dead; to examine blood and corpses and rotting bones." Jane counters, squinting intently - for her - at the shadow box butterfly. "That doesn't make me a knight the same way that Garcia isn't for dragging up information. I'm not the hero here, Aaron."

The thought made him pause, frozen from his unconscious pacing. "But that's not all you do." Hotch dissects, raising a hand before Jane could do anything more than tilt an eyebrow. "No, hear me out. You are the doctor for the team. You're the only one of your kind attached to a Behavioral Analysis team, and Strauss only allows that because you double as our medical aid and crime scene analyst - it's economical. You check over the team and patch up victims just as much as you examine dead bodies and blood splatters. So why wouldn't you be a 'knight'?"

Jane pauses, taking his words in. "Information, perhaps," Jane almost-muses, voice soft and eyes distant. "No one knows about my baseball cards and butterflies and families and vacations. I just don't have any."

And with that she gathered up her files, "As fun as this is," Jane breathes, "Elle should be out of surgery in an hour unless she's had complications. I'll be there to talk to her doctor about recovery."

And Hotch is left alone with his thoughts and a room full of puzzle pieces sent by a delusional killer.


	4. 04

"Blackwolf, I'm Agent Gideon. These are Agents Hotchner and Reid."

Reid waves awkwardly, feeling a little guilty about cutting over the man's student in class about the gahe. Honest mistake.

"You look like a college professor," Blackwolf jabs bluntly at Gideon, adjusting his grip on his knife and sheath to attach it to his belt. The Apache man turned to Reid, "And you look like his student."

Spencer resists scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"You," Blackwolf nods at Hotch, "You look like FBI."

Reid tunes out slightly as Hotch and Gideon stand off with Blackwolf, distracted by a flash of black in the corner of his field of vision. He turns, adjusting his glasses as Jane walks up to him, file in hand, completely ignoring the ongoing banter between their Unit Chief and the Apache man.

"Spinner," She greets softly, voice level. "Bloodwork came back. No heavy metal or residue. Typical hunting knife without even oil to keep it rust free. Only thing elevated in these kids were their BACs."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reid can see Blackwolf turn, eyeing Jane up while still trading barbs with Hotch. Surprisingly, the man cuts himself off, ending his sentence abruptly to turn and face Jane and Spencer fully - taking them in. Blackwolf's eyes pass over Reid again in favor of Jane's charcoal attire and black leather jacket, resting first on her innocuous yellow scarf and then her face, wiped blank as ever.

"And you are?" He asks, examining her critically.

"Dr. Hart. They call me Jane." Came Jane's standard answer.

"You look like a soldier, _Jane_."

There's a brief pause as everyone processes the declaration, and out of the corner of his eye Reid sees Hotch and Gideon exchange speaking glances. Jane, as ever, takes it in stride.

"I am no soldier. If anyone here is, I believe you are one." She counters lowly, ignoring the eyes on her in favor of replacing the files she had shown Reid in her satchel. When her focus comes up again, her gaze is narrowed. "And I feel obligated to remind you we are not at war."

Blackwolf nods, seemingly approving of Jane's response. "Well then, _Jane_." He acknowledges with a nod, an odd emphasis on her name. "It seems that we are at an understanding. _We_ -" He stresses, clearing indicating the two of them alone, "- are not at war."

A truce? Why would one be needed?

Jane nods only once, adjusting her satchel and turning away. "As I said," she affirms, turning her back and waving a single hand in farewell. She walks away.

Blackwolf watched her go, and we all watch him watch her. Eventually he turns to Hotch, a smirk gracing his features. "You'd best watch out for that one, Agent Hotchner." Blackwolf says dryly, eyeing the Unit Chief with amusement. "You can see it in her tred. Her stride. That is a woman who you will never tie down. Your government best let her choose her own way, lest she decides that she favors the just over the lawful."

Reid swallows unconsciously, turning to catch a last glimpse of black before Jane drives away.


	5. 05

Jane knew that the day was going to be rough from the moment that Aaron walked into the bullpen with bags under his eyes the size of Texas.

Their workload was light, comparatively, but the backlash from Gitmo and the closely diverted terrorist attack was still fresh in everyone's minds. The clearance confirmations, the files, the NDAs to sign - Jane may not have been a profiler … But she'd seen the tension in Hotch's shoulders when he learned that it was the USA mall being targeted. Overheard Morgan quietly telling Gideon about Haley and Jack, once the the Gitmo group had landed back in Quantico again. It was obvious that fear like that wouldn't leave simply because the threat had - temporarily - passed.

Hotch's call to enter is quiet when she knocks, his exhaustion shining through his voice and tone.

She opens the door quietly and just stands there a moment, watching. Hotch watches her right back; the two of them sizing each other up as profiler and doctor and friend. It is Aaron who moves first, nodding to the chair opposite his desk, pushing aside folders and stacks of papers.

Jane sits down plainly, and Aaron holds out his wrist.

She finds his pulse.

Jane would never be able to properly vocalize why she greets her colleague and friend this way. Why she _always _greets Aaron this way. If she really wanted to know, to ask, she was sure one of the many profilers on the team she was imbedded in - part of, really - would give her a laundry list. A compulsion to check the wellbeing of those around her, a paranoia of damage beyond her control and ability to treat, social anxiety and discomfort manifesting through a comfortable and familiar form of interaction, et cetera et cetera.

Personally, Jane thought that she just wanted to make sure her patients hadn't managed to break themselves since she'd seen them last. Hotch's pulse, after all, was threadier than usual - though by no means harmful in the short term. But sleep deprivation and stress is healthy for no one and it's good to monitor the effects it has on the Unit Chief now in a more controlled setting rather than in the field.

At least that's what she tells herself.

Aaron graciously allows her to finish her checks before speaking, watching her settle back with the clear intention of staying for a while. Jane's determination is clear: she's not moving until Hotch opens his mouth, and Hotch, someone as well versed in her body language both as a profiler and a friend, can read that easily.

"I really am fine," Aaron insists rather dryly, though resigned. "You checked me and Morgan both over, from the barn explosion and the altercation at the mall."

"I'm not the help you need," Is her reply, averting her gaze in favor of eyeing Hotch's paperwork. "My kind of help isn't what you need. That's not why I'm here."

Hotch chuckles despite himself, relaxing back into his office chair a bit to take her in better, rolling his shoulders absentmindedly to get the cricks out of them. "So what can I help you with?" He asks with hidden amusement. "Not satisfied with Agent Prentiss?" he asks, only half joking.

Jane hopes that her silence doesn't give her away too much.

Aaron sighs as he realizes, a hand coming up to pinch the brim of his nose and slide up to massage the stress away from between his eyebrows. "You know I didn't accept that transfer," He reminds her, voice low. "You know that Gideon didn't either. Neither of us would have done so without telling the team, and I _definitely _would not have allowed her to even walk into the bullpen until you had copies of all of her files and been prepared for her. We know each other better than that."

She shifts in her seat, looking through Hotch's office windows to see the newest member, eyes narrowing reflexively.

"Elle didn't listen to me," she finally contributes, voice flat. "I told her more than four months. I told her five, with PT and psych evals and therapy. You countered me, you let her into the field before I could stop you. And then she was out and you didn't pull her back in."

A pause.

"She had already completed a case without complication. Pulling her out would've distanced her from the team."

Jane sneers, the expression foreign on her features. "Distanced her?" she nearly scoffs, a tightness rising in her chest. "She needed distance. I'd say she shot that rapist in cold blood, but she was clearly boiling over. Nothing cold about that."

Silence saturated the air.

"Don't undermine me again, Aaron," Jane commands finally, turning to face him again. "I let you have your say and now we're here. This is a professional courtesy, Hotchner, or have you forgotten?"

Hotch shakes his head, face deliberately blank.

"You wanted me on your team. You heard my conditions, and you agreed to them," she reminds him icily as she stands up, angled toward the door. "You wanted me like a bug in a jar, but I have override authority over the entire team, you included. Don't make me use it."

The door echoes loudly as she shuts it.


	6. 06

Jane was checking the sheriff over again, silently and carefully, when Hotch got Gideon's call, telling him that he'd found the bus worth of children in the middle of the Nevada desert. Giving the sheriff's arm one last squeeze, she strides purposefully after Hotch and into the car, snagging her satchel from the ground as she went.

Hotch says nothing as she clambered into shotgun, only levels his gaze grimmly at her and started the car, shifting out of park. If the rental car had sirens, she was sure, Aaron would be blaring them and speeding full force into the night. But there were no sirens, and as they plunged into the wilderness she knew that the both of them had a severe sense of _not fast enough_ that was tugging them forcefully forward, dread building in the pits of their stomachs.

And it was _not fast enough_ that they arrived where Gideon directed them, throwing the car into park with more force than strictly necessary. As they clambered out of the car, Jane's eyes were drawn immediately to the shadowed figure of Gideon on the crest of the small ridge they were parked beneath.

Hotch and Gideon start talking about Frank, where he went and when he left, but Jane only had eyes for the huddled crowd of small, cold figures in the penumbra of the boulders. She rushes past Gideon without so much as a by-your-leave, and she knows that the profilers won't begrudge her that. She's not here for the living and healthy, serial killers or not. The children half frozen with exposure are her responsibility.

"Hey there," she calls softly to the children, deliberately shifting her default expression to something kinder, more trustworthy. "My name is Jane. I'm here to help you get home to your mommies and daddies, is that okay?"

The scramble of excited and tired bodies and voices drowns out the disgust for Frank that had been building in her gut since seeing wind chimes made of human bone. Since Gideon asked her to check whether the limbless torso abandoned in the Nevada desert had cauterized main arteries or not. Since JJ first handed her the stack of files full of people forgotten by the very country they lived in, the people they were a part of.

Sometimes the smiles of relief and the tears of exhausted joy are what make it all okay. All worth it in the end.

Or at least she can pretend it's enough.


	7. 07

It was Morgan and Emily who proposed going out for drinks, but it was Garcia who convinced Reid to come, and it was Reid who convinced Jane to come. Somehow.

That alone shocked the team enough that even JJ and Aaron took a break from their workload, and Rossi from his writing, to join them at some old roadhouse style bar in the city. It was homey rather than rundown, luckily, and had enough people to feel lively but not so much that it was claustrophobic. Oddly enough, apparently also the type of place that Jane frequents herself, as she demonstrated that by grabbing the drinks right off and chatting with the bartender with easy familiarity.

The BAU team settles in the back, hypervigilance and too many years around murderers and psychopaths forcing them to sit with their backs to the wall and clear lines of sight to all of the entrances and exits. Reid and Garcia immediately launch into some highly technical discussion the rest don't even try and follow, while JJ challenges Morgan to a round of darts and Hotch, Rossi, and Emily settle back, eyes on the room and their enigmatic doctor.

"She's comfortable here," Emily comments, falling into her rather rude habit of profiling her colleagues. "Posture with the bartender is familiar, but not overly intimate or personal. She's seen him and talked to him but most likely neither have exchanged information past orders and small talk."

"Emily -" Rossi starts warningly, a rebuke clearly on it's way.

"Dave, let her," Aaron cuts off, sending an indecipherable look his way. Dave kept his silence.

"Also," Emily continues on, mostly seeming to miss the exchange - though Reid and Garcia caught it - with her eyes still locked on their medic. "She's far more relaxed here. It doesn't show in her expression much, but whenever she's outside the Bureau or government buildings across the country she's far more relaxed. Even at dump sites!"

She turns to face the table fully, noticing everyone's eyes on her but plowing ahead anyway. "Think about it. She's not completely frigid and emotionless, but that's how she presents herself within the FBI and around other LEOs. We're the exception, but she doesn't even really see us as agents, only as patients she's tasked to take care of. She only started to warm up to me and lower her mask after she stitched my forehead up -"

She cuts herself off, looking at her tablemates, "What?"

"Actually," Jane's voice rang from behind her, voice amused. "I started to warm up to you after you came to me about your possible strained elbow rather than forcing me to first observe it and then pin you down for treatment."

Emily clears her throat awkwardly, covering it up by pushing Garcia's purse aside so Jane could put down the tray. "Ah," she starts, choppy and apologetic. "Um, well, I didn't mean -"

"You're fine, Prentiss," Jane cuts her off, pulling out a chair and sitting in one fluid movement. "Nothing I haven't heard before."

"Still -" Emily continued.

"Didn't know what ya'll drink," Jane cut her off again, turning to the table at large. "But I've been stuck with most of you for years at this point so I made my best guesses.

"Whiskey on the rocks for Hotch and scotch for Rossi, beers on tap for Morgan and Prentiss, G&T for JJ, and Chocolate Martini for Garcia and Spinner. Anyone crying?"

JJ and Morgan, who had wandered over during Emily's slip, eagerly grabbed their drinks and went back to their round, bickering lightly as they went. Prentiss shyly grabs and sips her beer, pretending to listen to Reid and Garcia, who thanked Jane profusely, as they return to their debate on Daleks v.s. The Silence.

"What did you get for yourself?" Rossi asks curiously, swirling his glass absentmindedly.

"Water," she answered shortly, grinning at the surprised glances. "Hey, someone's gotta be the designated driver. Might as well be the one with the medical degree, yeah?"

Aaron hid his grin behind the rim of his glass.

"So," JJ cuts in after a few minutes of quiet people watching, still grinning from her victory over Morgan. "What do we do now? I've already humiliated Morgan at darts!"

"Hey!"

"What do normal people going out to drink with their coworkers do?" volleys back Spencer, looking and no doubt feeling out of his depth. "Just talk?"

"Nah, Pretty Boy," Morgan snorts, pulling from his beer appreciatively. "They play drinking games."

"Now that." Rossi interjects playfully, "Is not going to happen."

"Oh, come on, sir!" Garcia complains, jogging him with her elbow. "We can _bond_. It'll be fun!"

"Drop the 'sir.' Garcia," Rossi rebukes dryly. "We're not at work. And fine, but only if there's no 'truth-or-dare'. I had enough of that in the Corps."

Garcia pumps her fist in victory as JJ and Morgan settle into their seats, drinks in hand.

"So what are we doing then?" Aaron asks amicably. "Other than truth-or-dare."

"Never Have I Ever," Morgan suggests promptly, smiling at Emily's groan. "Oh come on, Prentiss! It's just a game!"

"A game that can quickly go somewhere either supremely dark or uncomfortably sexual," Prentiss reminds him warningly. "And I'd like to look my bosses in the eye within the next month, thank you."

"I've already got most of the dirt on you, honey bear," Garcia says with a menacing grin. "And Janey over here has your medical files. If you're really stressed, we can confirm things for the group so you don't have to say the dirty deets, HIPAA be damned."

Emily groans, and Morgan laughs at her discomfort. "C'mon, Prentiss," he cajoled lightly. "You can veto anything too much. Anyone can."

"Pen, we all know you're just gonna target people based off the dirt you've no doubt picked up over the years," JJ points out, grinning. "Wouldn't be fair for the rest of us."

"Okay, ground rules:" Hotch cuts in, "No using prior knowledge to a ridiculous extent. Nothing too dark or too inappropriate. Veto rights, but used sparingly. The losing number is ten points - first to it pays for the round. Anything else?"

"Elaboration isn't mandatory, but can be encouraged," Jane suggests. "Fine other than that."

"Okay!" Penelope grins, clasping her hand excitedly. "I go first! Never have I ever been married!"

"That isn't even a real one," Dave complains, holding up a single finger. He turns to Hotch, also with a finger up. "That can't count, right?"

"Hey, I'm just getting the ball rolling!" Penelope assures them. "I've got better ones to come. But you two have got all kinds of advantages on poor Jayje and Janey and I. Profilers have an annoying tendency to cheat."

"I'll follow that up then," JJ interjects, "With a 'Never have I ever been a profiler."

"Hey, you skipped Reid!" Morgan protests, obviously trying to put off the inevitable. "Wait your turn, Blondie."

"Fine, but Spence - go!"

"Never have I ever been over the age of 30," Spencer adds with a grin. Reluctantly, Hotch, Morgan, Emily, and Rossi put fingers up.

"Ha ha!" Garcia practically crows, JJ grinning near her. "29 suckahs!"

"Wait, are we not going to address the fact that somehow Doc Hart over here isn't 30 yet?" Morgan injects, glancing appraisingly at the brunette. "How'd you manage all those years of medical school and then the Academy? You've been here for years! What are you, Reid 2.0?"

"Well I should hope not," Jane comments dryly, spinning the ice in her glass absently with a finger. "I don't think the world would survive having two of him. They might just decide to take over."

Reid looks minorly embarrassed by the laughs that gained.

"JJ, I guess you're up?" Jane reminds.

"Never have I ever been a profiler," the Media Liaison repeats dutifully.

"Damnit Jayje," Morgan complains again.

"You got one Emily?" JJ asks, completely ignoring the pouting Chicago native.

"Gimmie a sec," Prentiss muses, thinking intently. "I need a good one."

"Are we putting in a time limit?" Jane asks dryly. "Cuz I am not sitting forever every time.

"Under a minute," Dave proposes reasonably, hiding a grin. "I don't want to sit here forever either."

"Never have I ever …" Emily starts, trailing off a bit. "Umm. Never have I ever been a man."

"These all seem rather targeted," Aaron comments dryly, eyebrows raised. "If you wanted a pay raise, you guys, you just had to say it."

"Sorry!" Emily blushes. "I only had a minute."

"Puh-leese, angel fish, you had the entire time it took for us to decide on the game _and_ the rounds up until now. No excuses."

"Never have I ever kissed a man," was Morgan's, laughing. "C'mon, ladies. All of you were untouched!"

Garcia, Emily, and JJ all put a finger up - and it was almost missed in the staring contest Jane and Morgan were having when her hands stayed perfectly still that Rossi and Reid also stuck one up each. Almost.

"Wait, Rossi? _Reid?_" Emily exclaims, disbelieving. "When? _Who?_"

"You do a lot of things overseas during war," Rossi replied cryptically, swirling his glass dramatically. "You do even more once you get back."

Aaron fails to hide his snort.

"And you?" Morgan asks, tearing his eyes away from Jane. "Who's the lucky boy, Pretty Boy?"

"Ummm," Reid hedges, uncomfortable. "Do I have to answer that?"

"No you don't," Jane interjects firmly, eyes on Morgan still. "Let it be. He put a finger up."

"But you didn't," Morgan comments, tilting his head. "Rossi and Reid but not Jane. Huh."

"I don't have a single memory of ever kissing a man," Jane states flatly.

"Cryptic," Reid mutters, eyeing her over the rim of his martini.

"Never have I ever had an allergy," Jane states, a ghost of a grin on her face.

"Hey, no prior knowledge!" Reid complains, eyebrows scrunched. "That's not fair."

"You don't need prior, specific knowledge to know there are allergies on this team," Dave refutes. "Plus, it's neither everyone nor one person. Think it counts."

"Fine," Spencer grumbles, putting a finger up. "Stupid pineapple."

"You're allergic to _pineapple?"_ Garcia asks incredulously. "How is that even possible?"

"What's wrong with that?" Reid asks, ears reddening, gesturing at her second raised finger. "You're allergic to cashews!"

"And I'm allergic to dogs," Emily points out. "Allergies don't make sense."

"I'm just allergic," Dave says dryly. "The seasons hate me. Sue me."

"Ha ha, you're bodies tell you to evict foreign bodies when they're not explicitly harmful to your health," Jane gloats in a deapan. "Ha. Ha."

"Never have I ever been to England," Rossi says. "Or Britain. Or Great Britain. Or the UK, or whatever it's really called - I can't keep track of that."

"Actually -" Reid starts, before JJ sticks a hand over his mouth.

"That's who - Emily and Hotch?" She asks, stemming the flow before it could gain momentum.

"Nah, that's me too," Garcia adds. "Had to see Big Ben and the Eye, even if only once."

"Ammhnmhn," Reid adds, wagging a finger.

"Whoo~!" Emily cheers jokingly. "London!"

"Never have I ever had a doctorate," Hotch contributes before Emily can start singing _God Save the Queen._ "Sorry Reid, but Jane's been untouched up until now."

"I get it," Reid assures, "Even though you could've said 'Never have I ever been a woman,' or something. That way you could've gotten JJ too."

"What was that about targeting?" Jane asked.

"Says the chick who said allergies," Morgan grins.

"Hush you," Jane snipes. "Garcia's up."

"Hold up," Garcia protests, scanning the table. "I've got 3 and so does Morgan and Hotch has 4. JJ and Jane are at 1. Emily's at 5, Rossi and Reid are losing epicly at 6. Is that right?"

"Sounds it, Baby Girl," Morgan affirms, eyebrows cocked. "Now are you gonna go or -?"

"Patience is a virtue, Sugar Lips," Garcia grins evilly. "One you clearly don't have. Never have I ever gotten a tattoo."

Morgan groans, and sticks a finger up. Emily and Rossi follow more hesitantly, both grumbling as well, while Jane simply shrugs and sticks up a second finger.

"Okay, spill," JJ demands, eyes on them. "I've seen Morgan's - everyone has - but what have you two got?"

"You all remember that I was a Marine, yes?" Rossi drawls. "Everyone back then got ink, and I don't regret it. And no, I'm not showing you."

"Not telling, but I've got two," Emily comments, smirking. "Jane said we didn't have to elaborate."

"Jane?" Hotch asks, voice casual. "What about you?"

"I put a finger up, didn't I?" Jane asks sardonically.

"Aww, lighten up Doc!" Morgan cajoles. "It's just a question. How many have you got? Three? Four?"

"Define what a single tattoo counts as," Jane relents, tugging at her red scarf. "Because I can't answer that simply."

"What do you mean you 'can't answer that simply?" Rossi asks, eyebrows raised. "How crazy is your ink?"

"How about a single tattoo is an image or a group of images that hold one connected space," Reid suggests reasonably. "If they're not connected as a single unit, they're different."

"Okay then," Jane shrugs again. "I have one tattoo."

"Where?" Emily questions, "You only ever show your face and the tips of your fingers. I can't even guess."

"Across my back," Jane admits. "Upper, over my shoulders, and curling around my ribs and upper arms."

"That's _so cool_," Garcia squeals, excited. "What is it? When did you get it?"

"Spinner, you're up," the doctor redirects shamelessly.

"Never have I ever had surgery," the genius contributes, moving it all along. "Dental, major, or otherwise."

"Well I got _shot_," Garcia says, "And so have most of the people here."

"That's me, Garcia, Hotch, Rossi, and Morgan out, I'd say." Emily admits, "Jane, I missing anyone?"

"JJ got her wisdom teeth out when she was 19, and I've got the scars as proof myself."

"For what?" Hotch asks, eyes narrowing. "From before joining the team?"

"Yes," Jane said shortly. "And after."

"Rossi has eight! He's almost there!" JJ cuts through the tension. "Emily, do you and I completely destroy him or allow him to live another day?"

"Destroy!" Morgan bellows. "End him!"

"Ey - don't you be pulling any of that on me, you two!" Rossi objects, setting his glass down with a thump. "I've got seniority here."

"Only if you count non-consecutive years, old man." Jane snorts.

"Oi!" Rossi jabs a finger.

"Hush you," Jane rolls her eyes.

"Are you sure that water isn't actually alcoholic, Jane?" Hotch laughs out, startled. "I'm liking this side of you."

"Only outside the office, Aaron," Jane smirks. "Take it where you can get it."

One phone rings. And then two. JJ answers hers first, Hotch following quickly after.

"Rossi, I suggest you take the loss and go pay our tab," Jane suggests lowly. "Looks to me that we're out of time."


	8. 08

"Thought you'd still be here."

Jane turns from her charts, craning her neck around to see Gideon darkening her doorway. She half smiles wryly, eyebrow twitching. "Dunno what you expect, Jason." She drawls. "But doctors tends to have a couple things on their plates. Charts, for one."

"'Jason'," he repeats, a distant look on his face. "You know, you only ever call me Jason when we're alone. You even sometimes call Hotch 'Aaron' when other people are around, but never with me. And that hat is ridiculous."

"Garcia gave it to me. Keeps the hair out of my face."

"Give it back to her. Or burn it," He suggests with finality. "Better to have hair in your face then that much neon green."

"Says the man going bald," Jane volleys back. "And, seriously? A friendly interrogation at 9 o'clock at night, _Jason?"_

At his careless shrug, she just plows on, figuring it best to just answer his question and move on. "It's because Aaron is the Unit Chief, not the big name. Different."

"And what do you mean by that?" he continues, plowing ahead. "You don't care about titles, positions. Fame, fortune. That has never mattered to you."

He shakes his head, dragging out her guest chair and flopping down into it. "You and I, we're friends, Jane," He reminds her. "I was one of your first here. And not like Reid and I are friends, like Hotch and I are. Like you and Hotch are."

"You were - and are - Reid's mentor, Jason." Jane corrects, shuffling her papers. "You've never been that to me. Even Aaron sees you as a senior agent just as much, if not more, than he sees you as a friend."

"But we've never had that kind of relationship," He finishes for her.

She lets him mull it over, knowing he'll think himself out at some point.

"Why are we friends?" He queries as she sets her pen down to grab another file, stilling her.

"Is this a breakup, Jay?" she jokes, tossing out her seldom used nickname for him. "Cuz don't spare my feelings. Lay it down on me. It isn't me, it's you."

"Nah, nah," he chuckles, eyes on her. "But you have to agree it's an unorthodox relationship, you and I have. You're young enough to be my daughter."

"Not granddaughter, Jay?" She pokes, laughing as he blanches the slightest bit. "I'm joking. But age doesn't matter. In terms of maturity, you and I and Hotch all have the same eyes."

"Eyes that have seen the world and seen the world burn," Gideon elaborates knowingly, nodding. "But you're too young for eyes like that. Morgan doesn't have eyes like that."

"Jason," Jane shakes her head. "Even with what Morgan has gone through, he isn't like us, not yet. And hopefully not ever. It's different for us: you and I both hold scars that stories or words… cannot explain. And we both hide them, else the world decide us too broken to be of any use anymore."

"Is it wrong?" he asks, elaborating as she hums in confusion. "Wrong that you and I hide ourselves behind work and pretty words and personas. Does that make us wrong? Liars, like the people out there we chase?"

"I hope not," Jane replies after a minute, eyes distant. "Because if that's the case, then we become more like the people who scar then the ones bearing them. And then being broken is the least of our problems."

* * *

"Who uses arrows these days?"

JJ turns away from the puncture wounds on the briefing screen to face Jane as she walks in the door, tugging at a lime green baseball cap as she goes. The rest of the team is either scrutinizing the files or the doctor herself - specifically her questionable hat.

"Arrows, Jane?" Gideon asks when it's clear that the woman isn't going to elaborate. At her distracted, yet affirmative, hum he continues, "We hadn't determined a cause of these punctures yet. They were thinking some kind of bullet over in Idaho."

She glances up at the room, face surprised. "What, with that little bruising and that clean of a hole? It looks like it's ballistic because arrows can have the force of a gun behind 'em with the right draw weight. And for this, I'd say compound bow or longbow; most likely compound as it has the oomph this demonstrates and is a lot more common these days, especially with hunters."

Hotch nods, taking it all in. "Well then, would you be able to determine the types of arrows used based off the wounds?"

"Should be," Jane agrees, stealing Reid's case file. "But I'd say that you'd want to narrow down your pool first. It might be easier to identify the Unsub by a profile with the help of their weapons rather than by their weapons with the help of a profile."

"Do it anyway." Hotch orders, "Garcia, start looking for any missing person reports matching our victims and any of the victim's cars, anything you can find. Wheels up in 30."

* * *

"Yeah, Garcia?" Jane answers as she picks up the phone, eyes still locked on the autopsy reports. "You need something?"

"You missed Girls Night!" the Tech Analyst whines.

"Penny, it sounds like the three of you didn't even _have _much of a Girl's Night before you got called in."

"That's not the point!" Garcia protests, pouting. "You are finally starting to lighten up after all this time and you call me Penny sometimes and you're even wearing the hat I got you and we _always_ invite you but this is the first time I thought you might actually _show_. You said you would."

"No, I didn't." Jane corrects, rummaging through her satchel for a pen, but eventually just stole one from a distracted Reid. "I said that I would think about it. And of course I wore the hat, I always wear the things you get me. Even _if_ they're absurdly colorful."

"And did you think about it?"

"Yes, I thought the word 'no'," Jane drawls. "Very loudly."

"Ugh, you missed it!" Garcia steamrolled. "Emily brought this guy to our table that was trying to pick her up by saying he was FBI, and we asked to see his badge but when he didn't have it we showed him ours and it was _awesome_ and you totally missed it and I hate you!" She rushes out.

"Penny," Jane sighed. "Breathe. And I need to finish this up before we land. Go bother LeFey, wouldya?"

"I still hate you!" Garcia repeats, "Even if you cater to my whims by including the color I give you to wear in your pitch black wardrobe and you make sure my babies are safe and I kinda like that nickname you have for my Chocolate God that annoys him so much - but I still hate you!"

And the phone clicks as the hacker hung up on her, dial tone sounding. Jane squints at the phone warily.

"Garcia?" Hotch asks from across the table.

"Garcia," Jane confirms, turning back to her work.

* * *

"I am not a mountaineer nor am I a hunter, Jay." Jane comments casually as they browse the arrow selections idily. "And I already estimated length and probable composite for our arrows. Why am I here?"

"You ever been camping, Jane?" Gideon asks, fingers trailing over a compound bow's cords. "Or been in the wilderness much."

"A little," she answers automatically, then blinks at her own response. "Huh. A little."

"I'll add it to the Book for you."

"Thanks," she replies, lips twitching.

"But that's not why you're here," he elaborates, throwing a lightning quick and lopsided grin her way.

"Thought not. You going to tell me why, or am I guessing?"

"I'm worried about you," he says, turning. "Hankel affected the whole team, but you were the one stuck with him, not us."

"I'm seeing a psychiatrist the recommended amount for my experienced trauma," she reasons sardonically. "And have given her free reign to increase sessions if need be. I'm not afraid to get help, Jay."

"Help," Gideon waves his hands, wildly articulating. "Help is not your problem, Jane. It's never been your problem. Your problem is when you're not getting the help."

"Meaning?"

"The ladies had Girl's Night," Gideon reasons, somehow knowing everything as per usual. "You didn't go. You were in the office talking with me and doing charts. That worries me, it's not healthy."

"Great. So me _not _wanting to go out drinking is impeding my recovery?" she snorts. "Good thing you left the book writing to Rossi and the doctoring to me, Jason."

"You like drinking, Jane." Jason reminds her, voice reasonable and compelling. "You made friends in the city that you go partying with. It would be supremely dangerous and irresponsible to anyone an eighth as careful as you are, so you've had no reason to stop. So why have you?"

"You hate my partying, Gideon." Jane states, dryly reminding him. "You keep telling me to quit before I get hurt."

"I want you to stop on your own terms, when you realize that the people we chase are going to target you, Jane." Gideon clarifies, voice soft. "Not because someone hurt you so much you can't even reap joy from your little pleasures."

* * *

"You've been in the woods before?" Ranger Evans asks, eyes on the newest additions to their search party.

"A little," Jane replies distractedly. "Up in Vermont near the- is that a black bear?"

Morgan and Emily turn to face the lumbering creature off to their far right passing through a pine needle covered clearing. "Oh come on," Morgan groans, irritated. "We've been trying to train our senses for the better part of a day now to notice things like that, and you catch on within your first hour of properly being on the mountain?"

"Must've been some place in Vermont," Prentiss comments. "I was up in the Alps in France for weeks at a time when I was younger and I can't pick up more than the rare bird."

"Vermont?" Jane repeats confused, turning towards her fellow agent. "Who said anything about Vermont?"

The group stops, all looking with confusion at Jane, who mirrors it right back. All except Gideon, who waves his hand dismissively. "Ah don't worry about it. We better move on; we've still got ground to cover."

Jane blinks at him, and then the others, before shrugging and continuing on the beaten path.

* * *

"Food," Emily breathes exhaustedly, breathing in the smell of the Mom and Pop restaurant. "I can't wait to dig in."

The seven of them settle down around two pushed together tables, sharing menus and case files alike. Morgan decides quickly on some good old fashioned angus beef, closing his menu and taking in the team. And, because his gaze is up, he watches Gideon lean over to Hotch and whisper something in the Unit Chief's ear, getting handed a leatherbound notebook in response that he quickly begins to scribble some kind of entry in.

"That's the Black Book," Reid informs him in a low, conspiratorial voice, noticing his eyeline. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed it yet. The two of them keep it on the down low, but each of them adds on average two to three entries a week, with obvious variation, since before I've been on the team."

"What, a Black Book?" Emily asks from Morgan's other side, incredulous. "Like a hit list?"

"No," Reid corrects, shaking his head. "Nothing like that. I think it's an ongoing profile."

"Profile of who?" Emily wonders. "Or what?"

"It could be more than one person," Morgan suggests. "That is one awfully thick notebook for only one unsub."

"Actually it's not that large," Reid starts to lecture. "I estimate it's between 300 and 400 pages, and -"

"Oi, Pretty Boy, cool it," Morgan cuts him off. "Anyway, if it's a profile, or notes or something, what would they be taking it on? If it's pertinent to the case they would've shared it with us."

"So it's not case related," Emily expounds. "What happened today, unrelated to the case, that Gideon would've wanted to take notes about?"

"He was with Jane all day, should we ask her?" Reid queries, unsure.

"Jane," Morgan suddenly realizes, eyes on where the doctor chatting with Hotch. "Jane was distracted earlier today, in the park, and said that she used to spend time in the woods in Vermont. When Emily asked about it, she didn't even seem to know what we were talking about."

"And then Gideon brushed it off," Emily realizes. "Like it didn't even matter. Like he didn't want her to know about her, what, slip up? Confusion?"

"Mistake?" Reid offers.

"Wait, so does that mean that the profile is of Jane?" Emily asks, confused. "She's a member of this team, isn't she? Why would she need a profile?"

"Well, yes." Morgan confirms, though he doesn't sound convinced, "Even if she's rather hard to read. And she doesn't interact too much with us as a whole."

"She's hard enough to read that even Gideon and Hotch need a profile to get her." Reid jokes, "We don't stand a chance."

* * *

"This is Agent Morgan, go for Agent Gideon," Morgan's voice sounds from the radio, a touch of static muddling his words.

Jane nabs the offered radio from Evans and starts to walk over to Gideon with it. "LeFey, this is Jane. I'm on my way to Gideon now."

"We followed the tracks for several miles," Morgan continues, ignoring the nickname. "And now we can see something in the distance. Can the two of you get to higher ground?"

Jane and Gideon lock eyes, and they bound (or at least Jane does) up the slope until they had a clear view of the wilderness, Ranger Evans hot on their heels.

"See it?" Morgan sounds again.

Gideon takes the radio from Jane: "Smoke," he confirms.

"Smoke means fire, fire means people, people means unsubs or possible victims," Jane reasons, already turning toward where the truck is parked.

* * *

"Do you see the fire?" Evans asks, "It's right through those trees."

"There's a man lying next to it," Gideon comments, immediately sticking an arm out to block Jane from rushing forward. "We don't know who that is, Jane."

"He is covered in blood, Gideon," Jane grits out in protest. "Pull out your guns and flash your badges all you want, but I took an Oath. I refuse to break it."

"Prentiss, watch Jane's back," Gideon orders. "Let's move in."

They rush forward, and Jane immediately starts to work on the man, hushing him as he whimpers.

"Hey, hey," She comforts lowly, pulling bandages and gauze and tape from her bag. "I'm a doctor, and I just want to look at your wounds. To patch you right up, is that okay?"

The man nods shakily, choking on the blood bubbling up in his throat.

"My name's Jason Gideon," the senior profiler introduces himself, crouching down as she gets to work. "We're going to get you out of here, okay? Are you here alone?"

The man points, and Jane waves her friend away as she begins to prop up the man's legs.

* * *

"_Emelia, tenemos una problema,_" Jane calls out as Emily, Gideon, and Morgan all regroup near her. "_El hombre no tiene una herida de flecha. El sangre y la lesión no son consistente con una. Lo es muchos más probable que él ha sido apuñalado, dos o tres tiempos. Con una naja._"

"Wait, what did she say?" Morgan asks, turning to Emily. "Did you catch that?"

"She was calling to me," Emily explains, brows furrowed. "She says that we have a problem: the man doesn't have an arrow wound. The punctures and blood don't match up with one, and he was most likely stabbed two or three times. With a knife."

Gideon adopts the same look of deep concentration, as Emily turns back to Jane incredulously, "_Tú hablas español y yo nunca supe? Qué?"_

"Later, Prentiss," Jane replies stiffly. "You can interrogate me about my language abilities _later_."

"Jane," Gideon interrupts. "I'm going to need a moment with this man."

* * *

"I'm sorry your patient died," Jason apologizes to her lowly on the jet, eyes on the rest of the team.

"'Your patient,'" she repeats grimmly. "How broken am I to you, Gideon? Not Johnny. Not Mr. Mulford. Not even the Unsub. 'Your patient.'"

"You're not broken," Gideon tries to correct.

"No, no I am." Jane cuts him off, fists clenching. "But I'm just not broken beyond repair, is that it?"

"Jane-"

"I speak Spanish." She sucks in a breath, steadying herself. "I didn't know that. Not that much, I can tell. Not a native or an unused first language. I learned it in school, probably the majority in High School."

Gideon studies her, and she forces herself to meet his gaze.

"I'll add it to the book," he offers her softly, watching as she buries herself in case files again.


	9. 09

"Neither of us are profilers, and I don't interview witnesses" Jane declares with unnecessary dramatics. "You know this. Hotch knows this. Even the Georgia LEOs probably know this. So why am I here?"

"Sorry, Jane," JJ glances over sheepishly at the grumpy doctor, grinning slightly. "But we need to ask this Tobias Hankel for a description of the man he saw prowling, and Reid wanted to go through that pile of books - which I swear he produced out of nowhere - to see what he could predict about other major targets based off the unsub's delusions."

"Yes I know, JJ, I was the one to suggest he do that. That doesn't mean that I'm happy traveling through Armpit, Georgia, to do a job that wasn't on my contract," Jane gripes without heat. "And why am I driving? You gotta protect these doctor hands, my friend."

"Ah yes," JJ agrees with false formality. "Those incredibly delicate, pampered digits." She drops the tone, voice falsely innocent, "And I suppose you punching that Unsub in Florida was part of your daily care routine?"

Jane snorts, and JJ counts it as a win.

"Anyway it's because this is a stick shift," JJ replies, before catching the look that Jane was sending her way. "Hey! I can drive stick! I just …"

"Have a tendency to crash and/or stall epically when not in an automatic?" Jane supplies lightly.

"_Hey!_"

* * *

"Thank you for your time, sir." JJ says gracefully, nodding as Hankel starts to close the door. "Sorry for any confusion."

"That was fishy," Jane states flatly as they begin to walk from the house.

"I'd say. Why would someone call 911 only to later deny doing it?" JJ voices, confused. "It makes no sense. Was the prowler not really there?"

"No I'd say he was," Jane says, voice absent with thought. "But regardless of whether he was or not, the call got the police -"

She cuts herself off, eyes wide, and snatches JJ's wrist; ignoring any protest and dragging JJ to the side of the house to see in any windows she could.

"Jane - hey!" JJ yelps before Jane shushed her. In a lower voice, she continues. "Jane, it got the police to what?"

"To show up. A 911 call - the police would have to show up," Jane finishes, eyes narrowing as she took in the wall of computers through the window. "And he could gauge the response time, see how long he had."

"Jane!" JJ exclaims, and Jane tore her eyes away from the Unsub's live streams in time to see Hankel turn his back on them run out the back.

They follow hot on his heels, and watched as he bolted into the barn out back. Shoving her satchel to the side, Jane draws her seldom-used gun and nods at JJ to do the same.

"Hotch knows we're here," she reminds the Liaison, voice tight. "And eventually they'll come for us when they lose contact for long enough."

"What, so we wait him out?" JJ protests. "There still are other Unsubs, right?"

"Shit." Jane swears lowly. "We need to split up. He heads out and runs for those fields and he's gone."

"Jane I don't think -"

"JJ, I'm going to go out back. We need to at least try and keep him contained," Jane interjects, words wary but firm. "Keep an eye on this door."

"Jane-"

And she turns the corner, leaving JJ alone with her gun and a murderer in the barn.

* * *

Morgan is grimacing at the carcases of the dead dogs that tore apart an innocent woman when realizing what - other than the Unsub, Hankel - was missing from the scene. Or rather _who_.

"JJ, where's Jane?" Morgan asks, holstering his gun as he faced the traumatized Liaison.

"They just completely tore her apart," JJ continues to babble, not even seeming to hear Morgan's question. "There's nothing even left of her."

"JJ, look at me. Look at me," Prentiss cuts her off, her voice softening to the once she uses when talking to a victim. JJ turns to face her, hearing her, and Emily turns firm, clear. "Where's Jane?

"Oh, we split up," JJ replies distantly. "She said she was going to go around back."

Morgan runs off.

* * *

"They're gone."

Jane blinks, adjusting herself to the light, trying to focus on the man in front of her. "What 'they?'" She asks, her words slurring slight. _Minor concussion. CT recommended for assessment of damages. Minor physical activity and limited mental tasks for at least three weeks._

"It's just me now."

Jane coughs, jolting her head wound. "And who is 'me'?  
The man straightens up, posture as regal as a king's. "I am Raphael," he declares, informs, Jane slowly. She strains at the bindings on her wrists futilely.

"Are you cooking something, Raphy?" Jane asks derisively, not out of some profiling trick but rather a rather strong aversion to showing the man - or at least this personality - any form of respect. "Think it might be burning."

"Burning fish hearts and livers keeps away the devil."

"Yeah?" Jane asks, schooling her features and examining the shack she was trapped in, strapped to a chair. "Well so does denying his existence, doesn't it?"

"I believe you can see inside men's minds," Raphael continues, ignoring her sarcasm.

"Whoa, not a profiler," Jane corrects sardonically. "Try Jason Gideon. He should be at the station. Feel free to walk right in, I'm sure he'll see you right away."

The turn of a revolver's wheel shuts her up, and she eyes it warily.

"Do you know what this is?" 'Raphael' asks, holding up a single bullet.

"I feel that you're about to tell me," Jane bites out before she can stop herself.

"It's God's will," the delusional man corrects, loading the gun and flicking the cylinder into motion. "I am an instrument of God."

And the hammer clicks.

* * *

By the time the unsub - Hankel, Raphael, whoever he is - pushes open the door again, Jane's had the time to asses all of her injuries. On the off chance that the unsub decides that a minor concussion in enough to properly torture her for her sins, her recovery time would be brief, no longer than a month or so.

On the off chance.

"What are you staring at, woman?" The man asks, dumping his armload of logs next to the door, glaring.

'_Don't engage if you don't know the profile_,' Aaron's voice echoed in her mind. '_You don't have the training the rest of us do. Profiling is a last resort for you, unless one of us gives you what you need to work with.'_

'Right. Don't engage,' she thinks dryly.

As the man - a third personality? It's not shy Hankel or regal Raphy - uses a log to poke at the burning fish guts, she bows her head to her chest, intent to block out as much of the experience as she can.

"What are you doing, woman?" The man demands, voice harsh and demanding. When she doesn't respond, he grabs her by the chin roughly, forcing her face up to the light. "What are you doing, _woman_?" he repeats with venom.

'Shit. There goes that plan.'

"Praying for forgiveness, sir," Jane says, doctoring her voice to be meek and demure; what a man like this - definitely religious and clearly misogynistic - would expect a 'proper' woman to sound like. "I do not know what I have done to offend the Lord, sir, but I hope through prayer I can be enlightened."

The Unsub releases her face like he's been burned, glowering down at her. "And what have you been enlightened of?"

Swallowing dryly, she plays for time. "Forgive me, sir, but I do not have the same strong and admirable bond with Him as you do, sir. If I may ask of you more time, sir, so that when I pray for my salvation I may do so with proper respect and repentance."

Daring not to meet his eyes, she lowers her face until her eyes fix on a tombstone propped against the barn's wall, nearly out of her line of sight. She waits in silence, projecting meekness the best she can while concussed, playing the part of the shy little church girl wary of God's wrath.

"Only until I return, woman," The man allows grudgingly. "I will aid the Lord in your punishment when I return."

And he walked out the door, slamming it behind him before she could get a good look at the area just outside the cabin.

"Shit."

* * *

"You need to eat."

Jane breathes out a sigh of relief at Tobias soft voice even as she eyes the bloody animal corpse warily.

'Looks like deer's on the menu,' she thinks rather hysterically. 'Doe and deer and buck and stag and Hart.'

"Tobias?" Jane asks softly, warily, as the personality begins to prepare the meat. "Someone was in here earlier, but I never caught his name. Do you know who he was?"

"That was probably my father," Tobias replies, a soft smile. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, of course not." Jane assures him quickly, relaxing her posture to match and sending him a soft smile. "I would like to get to know you, if I may? May I ask you about yourself?"

'Careful. Careful.'

"I'm afraid I can't talk long, I'm sorry." Tobias apologizes, looking out the window. "My father will be returning soon, and I'd like to cook this sheep up before he gets here."

"Of course," Jane concedes with a smile like plastic. "If you'd like to talk to pass the time, I'll just be here."

* * *

"You ready woman?" Tobias' father demand roughly, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her face skyward. Jane knew she had ran out of her luck; Tobias' father leaving her to 'pray' was only a stall, after all.

"Ready for what, sir?" She asks, forcing herself to stay calm and polite.

"My weekling son thinks God gave you to him for a reason," the man says, jerking her chair around roughly. "Let's see if he's right."

And the murderer pulls out a tripod and video camera and points it right at her.

Jane swallows roughly. And sends out the first real prayer she's made all night.

'God,' she thinks, 'If you're out there, don't force the only people I've got to see me die. Not like this.'

* * *

Morgan is already on edge, pacing behind Garcia in the house of the man who kidnapped a member of his team. A friend. Jane's who patches them up after an Unsub gets too close. Who looks at the dead, mutilated corpses so the local LEOs don't have to. Goddamnit, the only person who can get Reid to switch to decaf. And it all feels like it's too much, and Derek's nerves are shot with how jumpy he's getting.

When the computers go black, chiming in a way that his Baby Girl didn't cause, his fried nerves get another jolt and dread builds in the pit of his stomach.

A live feed of their Doc right in front of him, coming from who knows where.

"Guys!" He calls, rushing to the doorway. "Guys, get in here!"

And they file in, all of their eyes fixed on the muddied, bloodied figure of their friend on the screens.

"Her head is bloody," Emily says, strained. "She's injured."

"Can't you track her?" JJ pleads, clutching at her chest.

"Hankel's only streaming this to his home computer," Garcia stated grimmly.

"This is for us." Gideon declares darkly. "He knows we're here."

"He's going to punish her for her sins," Reid says, voice rough and strained. "And we're stuck here."

"I want to put this guy's head on a stick," Morgan growls.

His team begins to work it, Garcia explaining why Jane can't be tracked. Morgan grits his teeth, the heel of his hand coming up to rub at his side, where he can still feel the stitches from when Jane had last stitched him up.

'_Careful, Morgan,_' she had warned, voice firm. '_You do what you need to to save those lives, but you be damn sure to come back so I can fix you up each time. And don't tear out these stitches, moron, you have enough scars as it is.'_

"You really see inside men's minds?" Charles - or Raphael? - asks from off camera. "See these vermin?" The team exchange glances. "Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."

They see Jane swallow roughly, eyes locked offscreen, "I cannot trust the oaths made by a man not in the name of the Lord." She says woodenly, and the profilers can see her scrambling to maintain a submissive facade.

The sound of footsteps and a man's back and legs enter the frame. "The other sinners are watching," Hankel states. "Choose a sinner to die, and I'll say the name and address of the person to be saved."

"I have not the blessing of the Lord to choose who may live and who shall be forced into the graveyard." Jane grits out after a moment, an odd note in her voice.

Hankel lunges forward, pulling Jane up roughly and shaking her, her short frame almost comically small next to the tall figure. "Choose one to die, save a life. Otherwise they're all dead."

He drops her again roughly back onto the chair, her breathing labored. "Yessir," she says, eyes locked on the camera and voice thick. "Sir, if I may I am a doctor. I took an Oath never to harm another man or woman."

"So?" Charles - or Raphael - spits roughly.

"May I choose who lives instead, sir? So I may keep the Oaths I made in the name of the Lord?"

They all tense at the beginnings of tears tearing Jane's voice, her voice cracking. Fingers dig into chair backs; Reid's fingers are like a death grip around Morgan's arm.

"It's all the same."

Jane closes her eyes, and they watch in detached horror as she visually gathers herself - their friend, who had a shell thicker than a tank and the professionalism of all of them combined - crumbling over the choice she is forced to make.

"I choose -" she cuts herself off, head bowed. "I choose the far left screen."

As Gideon makes the call, Morgan's eyes stay locked on Jane's bowed figure until the screen goes dark.

* * *

Jane can't force herself to look away from the away from the woman who was killed. Who _she_ killed. She wishes that he had gone numb, go into shock, but Jane's an FBI agent and a trauma medic and a doctor. She's not allowed to go into shock.

So she's stuck watching. Waiting for her delusional captor to return and gut her like the fish on the stove, still burning.

It takes a second for Gideon's voice to even register, through it all. Longer for her to see his face.

"Jane."

She can't focus. Concussion? Or guilt.

"If your watching, your not responsible for this. You understand me? You have not broken your Oath. You saved that couple's life. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you. You cannot die before you complete your task, don't allow yourself to. I believe in you, Doe."

And then he's gone. Jason is gone.

She still can't tear her eyes away from the screen.

* * *

"We're not getting any closer," Hotch says, frustration leaking through his professional facade.

"Jane's smart. She's been playing this kind of game too long to lose now," Gideon reasons, hiding his own worry behind deliberate logic.

"You mean the game where she hides everything she is to cater to those around her?" Hotch grits out, voice shaking. "The game where she puts the safety and wellbeing of others so far over her own that she loses herself entirely into the character she makes for the Bureau, the team?"

"The same game where she joined our team and got the whole DoJ wrapped around her little finger," Gideon corrects, stopping to face Hotch head on. "The game where she is strapped to a chair located God knows where, playing the choir girl so that Hankel has no reason to punish her. That game, Aaron."

Hotch forcefully relaxes his jaw, turning away.

"She'll make it," Gideon calls out softly, and Hotch pauses for just a moment before walking away. "She has to."

* * *

"No. NO!" Raphael exclaims, glaring at the notification claiming that the video is a virus. "They're trying to silence my message."

"Not there with 'em, sweetheart." She replies tiredly, giving up the facade of prayer. She'd been muttering lyrics under her breath for hours, and just ran out of Beatles songs. "I can't control them."

"Oh, really?" Raphael sneers, playing back Gideon's message to her on one of the laptops.

"_\- you are stronger than him -"_

Another shift.

"You think you can defy me?" Charles asks, stalking towards her.

"I don't know what he's talking about -" she tries.

"You're a _liar_ -!"

She holds in a reflexive whimper.

"You're a pitiful woman. Spineless - just like my son!"

He hits a command on the laptop, turning the feed back on. "This ends now." He growls, "Confess your sins."

She holds her breath as the blow rains down on her.

"Confess!"

"I haven't done anything," she chokes out, head reeling, but they just keep coming. She eventually just stops flinching as the blows rain down and down and down and _down_ -

It's almost a relief when she hits the floor.

But it's not. It can't be. Because the angle wretches her shoulder out of alignment just as she feels one of her ribs give, so she arches her back and _screams_ -

As she's blacking out, she hears his words:

"And that's the devil vacating your body."

* * *

Reid's face is pressed almost right up against the monitor, eyes narrowed and body tense.

"Reid," Hotch calls, voice harsh with suppressed grief. "_Reid_."

"She's not dead."

The room goes silent, and all eyes are on him while his eyes are on the monitor, tracking the minute rise and fall of her chest. "She blacked out," he elaborates. "Her breathing is uneven, so she most likely broke a rib. And her shoulder is broken or dislocated. But she's -"

And then he jerks back as Tobias - the body language clearly Tobias - rushes back on screen. They all watch as the starts to give her CPR, and Reid tenses.

"If he jars her broken rib it could puncture a lung and kill her in minutes," Reid spouts out rapidly, eyes wide.

They all watch, and seconds after the compressions had started, Jane seems to force herself awake and is shoving Hankel away from her as best she can still bound and injured, coughing harshly.

Garcia sighs audibly in relief. The rest hold their breath.

* * *

"You came back to life."

Jane tries to breathe shallowly while playing it off as a prayer to a god she's not sure even exists. "I thank the Lord for granting me a second chance to bless his name," she croaks, wincing.

"It can be for only one of two reasons," Raphael decrees, standing over her. "How many members are on your team?"

She can't think of a reason to lie: "Eight."

"Seven, and then you?"

"Yes," she gulps.

"The seven angels who had the seven trumpets and prepared themselves to sound," Raphael quoted. "The first sounded and there followed hail and fire mixed with blood, and they were thrown to Earth."

Raphael wretches her chair up forcefully, shoving her back into the seat heedless of her abused ribs. "Who do you serve?"

"I serve the Lord as he sees fit," she gasps out through the pain.

"Then choose one to die," he commands, leveling his revolver at her face.

* * *

"What?" Jane asks through the speakers, favoring her wrist and side gingerly.

"Your team members. Choose one to die."

"Kill me," she pleads, and Reid can feel his heart break. The most raw emotion he'd ever heard from the brilliant woman, and it could be moments before her death. It's not fair.

"You are not one of the Seven. Tell me who dies."

"No."

Reid's heart clenches, eyes locked on the gun inches from Jane's face.

"Choose," Raphael commands again, and he hears someone's breath catch. "And you'll do God's will."

"No." She pants out, head held high, staring down the barrel of the gun.

The gun clicks once. There's no time to feel relief.

"Choose."

"I love more than I hate," Jane recites like a mantra, eyes closed against the world.

Click.

"I heal more than I harm."

Click.

"And I shall forever value life above all else."

Click.

Silence. A pause, in the house and over the camera.

"Life is a choice. Choose."

A 50/50 chance. Spencer can't even swallow.

They watch as she swallows harshly, breathing uneven. "I choose …" She wets her lips. "I choose Spencer Reid."

He can feel his team's eyes on him, but Spencer only has eyes for the screen.

"Reid has never respected me," Jane croaks, head high. "He has no respect for my work or the work of the team, poaching credit left and right. If anyone deserves to die, it's him."

Raphael raises his barrel and shoots the wall, and the feed cuts off.

Silence echoes through the room.

"I'm not disrespectful."

Gideon turns toward him, reassurances falling from his lips but Reid waves his hand, cutting him off. "No, _no_!" Spencer cuts through, eyes on the black screen. "I'm not disrespectful. I might not listen sometimes, but I always respect her and her work. And I never _poach_."

Hotch catches on first. "Everything she said," he starts. "It's not true. He was forcing her to make a choice, but Jane only had to say a name. She _could've _just said a name, so why say the rest unless it was for a reason?"

"_Poaching_," Gideon breathes. "Garcia, can you see if there have been any reports of poaching nearby?"

The tapping of keys. "A farmer has reported two sheep missing in the last couple days," She reports.

"Within the area we narrowed down?" JJ asks.

"Graveyard," Reid exclaims suddenly. "You guys, _graveyard_."

They turn toward him, confused.

"First time we saw Jane. When Hankel asked her to choose who to die, after he told her that we were watching," Reid explains hastily. "'_I have not the blessing of the Lord to choose who may live and who shall be forced into the graveyard._' Graveyard. _Graveyard_."

"Garcia," Morgan begins, but is cut off immediately.

"Got it!" Garcia exclaims, eyes locked on the screen. "Marshall Parish. Within the zone and smack in the middle of an old dilapidated graveyard."

"We're coming, we're coming," Morgan mutters, eyes on the map - on Marshall Parish.

* * *

It's not even a surprise to Jane when the door gets kicked in. As Hotch and Morgan burst in - closely followed by the rest of the team - she just wishes that it was Tobias who was there to great them.

Not Charles, who immediately has a knife to her neck.

"Let her go, Hankel." Hotch demand, gun trained on the sliver of Hankel's torso not being protected by Jane's body. "She's not a sinner."

"She is a sinner!" He insists, forcing her to stand. "They all are! They must repent."

Jane, sick and tired and injured, cannot contain the laugh that burst from her mangled body, shooting stabbing pain up her side like a knife in her gut. The attention of the room abruptly shifts at the startling sound.

"What?" She barks, hysterical humor in her voice. "You think that you can force me to pay for all of my sins using a _pocket knife_?"

Humor still bursts from her recklessly, the jostling of her cackles digging the bowie knife deeper into her neck. For the life of her she can't even pinpoint what's even funny. But he's listening.

"You pathetic man," she sneers, ignoring the warning looks of her team. "An instrument of God? His tool? I have been punished by men far more powerful than you could ever dream to be."

She reaches up to dig her nails into the arm across her chest, fingers tight enough to draw blood. "God punished me," She assures him, snarl feral. "He tore me apart and left me in the wastelands _alone _as I tried desperately in vain to pull myself back together again. He took my soul and caged it, locked tight; hidden well and stolen away from myself and the world alike. _God himself_ decided that I was worthy of living but unworthy of life - and now? You think your _righteousness_ can possibly compare?"

"God has already tried her," Gideon cuts in, gun holstered and hands up. "You can move onto the next sinner. You can complete His work where it is needed most, not where He has already been."

'Charles' rocks back, grip loosening just slightly on Jane -

Just enough to get a bullet through the forehead courtesy of one Aaron Hotchner.

When the body crumples, Hankel's knife drags across Jane's collar bone. A slash of pain, and then the last thing she sees before she collapses is Gideon rushing towards her, reaching out, lips moving.

And then the black comes.

* * *

Jane feels nothing when the world comes back to her, but she figures that's the pain meds more than her clean bill of health.

Well, she does feel something.

She cracks her eyes open with much effort to see a larger, more callused hand in her own glove-free one. She follows it up, eyes running along the attached wrist and arm up to Aaron, who is smiling at her softly.

Jane blinks slowly, finding it hard to think through the cloud of pain medication.

At least she wasn't wearing some hospital gown.

"You know," Aaron smiles wryly as he reaches over to her call button. "You're not actually trained as a field agent."

She closes her eyes, too tired to snap back at him. She feels herself drifting.

"Hey, no." Hotch protests in a voice usually reserved for Jack or Haley, squeezing her hand gently. "Stay awake until the nurse comes, okay?"

Jane struggles to pry her eyes back open, and lolls her head to the side to take him in. His suit is rumpled and slung across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. His hair a mess, and the smell of old coffee and too little deodorant lingered in the air.

"You look tired," She crokes, wincing at the pull the movement makes at her neck.

"Careful," Aaron murmurs, ignoring her statement. "You nearly got your carotid sliced open. No reason to finish the job."

"JJ?" Jane asks, because even if she doubts that anything happened to her friend, she can't be too sure.

"JJ's fine," He assures her, squeezing her hand gently. "You were the only one that Hankel got from our team."

It's then that a lean woman in a white coat comes in, a handful of staff trailing behind her. Aaron gets up as if to leave, but Jane has an iron grip on his wrist before he can even fully get up.

She doesn't say anything, and neither does he. He simply sits back down and holds her hand.


	10. 10

In the silence of the jet, Jane is pulled from checking Emily's reflexes post 4-by-4-to-the-head via the ringing of her phone. She tears her attention away from the raven haired agent, holding up a single finger as she digs through her satchel for the incessant _brrrrring_.

She doesn't recognize the number.

"Doctor Hart," Jane greets, flicking her phone open.

"Doe," Gideon's voice sounds from the phone, tinny with the distance and the quality of the call. Clearly not from a cell phone. "Jane Doe. Guess it comes full circle then."

"Jay?" Jane asks, straightening up, worried by something in his voice. She gestures to Prentiss to wait and starts to pick her way to the back of the plane - near the cabin in hopes of some semblance of privacy. "I've been trying to get ahold of you all day."

"Don't tell the others," Gideon pleads, voice tight and emotional. "Not even Hotch. Especially not Reid."

"Okay," Jane agrees quickly, concern rising. "Okay. But where are you?"

"Doesn't matter now," he dismisses. "I thought about writing a letter. Like I was going to do for Spencer - like I did for Spencer - but that isn't fair to you."

"Doesn't sound fair to him either, Jay," Jane points out. "Letter for what?"

"A letter to say goodbye."

Jane swallows, leaning her head against the cool side of the cabinets. "Goodbye," she echoes. "So this is how it ends, eh?"

"It comes full circle," Gideon repeats, voice soft. "This is how it began for you and I, didn't it?"

"No, Jay, it began when you and your Italian boyfriend showed up one morning outside my dingy flat in Boston and did your best to pitch to me why this was what I wanted," Jane corrects, voice wry and thick. "It began when I socked Dave in the face and kicked the both of you out, threatening to press charges."

"But then you called while I was on a plane five months later," Gideon reminds her, a sad smile in his voice. "And you asked me where you needed to put your damn name already."

"I wasn't the same Jane back then," Jane says, hunched as tears gathered despite herself. "I hoped that I'd be a different one when you left."

"Oh, Doe." Gideon comforts. "You already are.

"So that's it then?" She asks, straightening up and wiping her eyes. "I get a phone call and he gets a letter and we never see you again?"

"Find me when you have a name," Gideon orders gently. "I'd like to know it."

And the phone clicks, dial tone sounding.

Jane stares at the phone numbly, ignoring the eyes of everyone on the plane on her. Profiling her. Suffocating her.

And it's Strauss, with no knowledge of how this team functioned or anything about Jane herself, who breaks the silence. "Dr. Hart?" She asks, genuine - but completely unwelcome - concern in her voice. "Are you alright?"

"With all due respect, Ma'm," Jane finds herself replying, reflexive and biting. "That is none of your damn business."

* * *

It's close to 3:00 AM when her doorbell rings, and Jane has to scramble to throw on a long sleeve shirt over her tank top before she can even think of answering it. When she does, she doesn't pretend to be surprised at who she sees on her stoop.

"You knew, didn't you?" Reid demands the moment she opens her door, anger radiating from his whippet thin frame. "That call on the plane, the one you snapped at Strauss about. Gideon called you."

"Yes, he did," Jane confirms, leaving the door open as she turned back into her apartment, not checking to see if he would follow. "And he wrote you that letter in your pocket because he knew that you would respond like this."

"Like what?" He demands, stung. "Hurt - like any sensible person whose mentor - _friend _\- has _abandoned_ them?"

"_Angry_," Jane corrects him. "He wrote because he knew you would be _angry_."

"Of course I'm angry!" Reid spits, bristling. "And why aren't you?"  
"Oh, I'm angry," Jane snaps back, feeling her own heat rising. "Don't you _dare _tell me that I'm not."

"He explained himself to you!" Spencer yells, headless of her neighbors. "He left and called you - you were on the phone for less than five minutes and you didn't ask him anything! You didn't tell any of us anything! We could've found him - _talked _to him!"

"And done what? Drag him back kicking and screaming, miserable from a job he dedicated his _life _to?" Jane bellows, startling the genius. "And what the hell do you mean by 'explain'? He never explains things to me! Never has, never will. I'm not a profiler, Reid. He's not my mentor or surrogate father or whatever the hell he was to you! I was his friend, and we all hide things from our friends, Spencer!"

Jane runs a hand haphazardly through her hair, trying in vain to calm herself down. "You didn't think, Spinner. You didn't _think_," she growls. "Jay never told me why he was leaving. He expected that I would understand, that I would _get it_. He knew that you wouldn't, not yet, and that's why he wrote you, of all people, a letter. He wrote that letter - to _you _\- for a reason. Think long and hard about that instead of getting ready to wage war on someone hurting just as much as you are!"

Stunned silence.

"Jay," Spencer echoes, awed. "You called him 'Jay'."

"I call you 'Spinner,'" she reminds him warily. "What difference does it make."

"I -" he cuts himself off, finding his words. "I knew you two were friends, that he was … I didn't realize how - how close you two … were."

"Yeah," she sighs. "That's the point. That's always been the point."

He stands in silence, contemplating.

Jane massages her face, sighing deeply through her nose. "Neither of us are sleeping tonight, are we?"

Reid shuffles, just seeming to realize the time of night and Jane's state of disarray.

"It's fine," she waves before he can even begin to form an apology. "Cocoa and chess?"

* * *

"Did Gideon teach you to play?" Reid asks after their third round, watching as the light of the sun began to break through Jane's heavy curtains while she packs up her set.

"Nah, not technically," Jane replies, counting the pieces. "But he taught me strategy, so kinda."

"Oh," Spencer replies, shifting in the ancient armchair awkwardly, looking around to distract himself.

Jane's apartment was tiny, and as far as Spencer could tell had only the barest minimum. The table was only large enough for three, tops, with only two chairs in the whole apartment - both mismatched and clearly thrifted. Her kitchen was more accurately a kitchenette, attached to the main space with a mini fridge and camping oven and no dishwasher. The house held no photos, no certificates. Only the occasional article of clothing, random pile of files, or odd book marked the apartment as lived in at all. And although this was only the central room, there only seemed to be a single bedroom and bathroom other than it.

"I like your flat," Spencer comments, not sure what else to say. "I didn't really notice it when I came in. Cozy."

"Cute lie, Spinner," Jane smirks, tying up her hair as she heads towards the kitchenette. "It's worth nothing more than a place to sleep and a good way for my coworkers to profile me. Acuka?"

Spencer blinks, unfamiliar with the word. "Sorry?"

"Acuka," Jane repeats, digging into her fridge. "Only thing I really ever make, and only recipe I know by heart. It's a spicy tomato paste spread. Mediterranean. It's good."

"Oh, ah," He flounders. "Well -"

"Spinner, calm down." Jane orders flatly. "Breathe."

"Sorry," He mutters. "I didn't think this through when I stormed in last night."

"I," Jane declares. "Am going to go shower. And then I am going to get ready for work. If I return and you are still here, that is fine. If I return and you are not, that is also fine. If I return and you have eaten all the acuka, that is _not_ fine."

And with that, Spencer watches her practically _flounce_ off into the bathroom, leaving him in stunned silence behind her.

* * *

"Hey Pretty Boy," Morgan calls out to him late that afternoon, sidling up to Reid as he settles at his desk. "Any reason why I saw two docs instead of one climb out of that rust bucket of yours this morning?"

"I went to talk to Jane last night after I found out … about Gideon," Reid explains, honestly yet awkwardly. "But it was so late it was early, so I stayed and we just came together this morning."

"Wait, you stayed at Jane's?" Emily interrupts, "I didn't realize you two were that close."

"We're not!" Spencer hastily corrects, flushing. "When I got the letter, I realized that Jane's weird phone call was from Gideon about him leaving."

"So you stormed her place, guns blazing," Morgan nods, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips. "And then you made up and stayed the night."

Reid finds himself nodding before his friend's implications catch up to him, and he blushed furiously.

"Morgan!"

* * *

When the doorbell to the Hotchner home rang, Haley was the one to get it while Aaron coaxed Jack into eating another spoonful of cheerios rather than throwing it to the ground.

"Oh, I know you," Aaron can hear Haley say to whomever was at the door, and he felt his curiosity peak. "Aaron is in the kitchen - would you care to come in?"

He looks up from his messy son when he hears footsteps nearing the table, and sees Haley leading an uncomfortable looking Jane into the kitchen, in her work clothes and wearing a pair of orange fingerless gloves no doubt courtesy of Garcia. Jane tries for a smile through her obvious discomfort, and Aaron stands to meet her with a grin.

"Jane," He greets, nodding his head to his son. "Have you met my son Jack?"

"No, I haven't," Jane replies, latching onto a topic of conversation like a lifeline. "But he's quite the little one."

Aaron turns to scoop Jack up, secretly crowing at the opportunity to push Jane out of her comfort zone even further. "Jack," He says to the two year old. "Do you want to say hi to Auntie Jane?"

Jane looks immediately overwhelmed, and as Jack begins to make grabby hands at 'Auntie Jane' - which Jane automatically obliges by taking him oh-so-carefully from Aaron's arms - Aaron locks eyes in satisfaction with Haley, who's smiling softly at the scene.

Jane looks at Jack with a sort of bewilderment - the kind that he would've thought the stoic woman couldn't possess when they first met all those years ago. And Jack's a happy kid, reaching out to tug at Jane's turtleneck and bits of her hair, which the doctor takes with grace.

"So, Jane." Haley interrupts after a long moment, still smiling. "What brings you here this morning?"

"Sorry to drop in on you like this," Jane responds automatically, falling back into polite habits. "I just …" She trails off, and glances over at Hotch with a mixed expression. "Well, I heard about the suspension yesterday," She admits. "And I wanted to talk, but it didn't seem right over the phone. Didn't think it through, entirely."

"Well then," Halley declares. "I'll take this little guy to get ready for the day, and you two can talk."

* * *

Once Jack and Haley are out of the room, Jane can feel herself relax immediately. _Pathetic_.

"Suspension, really?" She complains, punching Aaron in the arm. "That was Gideon's call, at the college. That girl ended her own life."

"I couldn't slander his name like that, Jane." Aaron protests, justifies, but she's not having it.

"He slandered his own name when he ditched us," She states bluntly, suppressing the flinch she wants to let out at her own words. "I love Jason, Aaron. He was my first friend here. When I was some upstart doctor you wanted to dissect, and some kind of secret weapon Strauss wanted to level up her team with, Gideon was never like that. Jay was there for _Jane_, not Dr. Hart."

"I thought you would've been more understanding," Aaron shoots back with ice. "After all, you're running away from your past too."

"Oh no, no. I'm not running away," She corrects with vitriol. "I'm running _towards _something. Always have been. Jay isn't."

She looks at him meaningfully.

"You think I'm running," Aaron accuses her, and she holds his gaze. "I'm not running."

"You telling me?" She asks, turning towards the front hall, and he trails behind her. "Or are telling yourself?"

"Like you're one to judge," He calls after her, and she pauses with her hand on the door. "How many times have you taken the easy way out?"

"Oh, Aaron." She calls over her shoulder, "I'm far too much of a hypocrite to tell you what to do. But how many times have you tried to convince me to stay and fight?"

And she closes the door behind her.


	11. 11

"Jane, do you have a minute?"

Jane glances up from her files at Aaron hovering in her doorway, and nods as she puts the last few touches on the toxicology workup she was annotating. Her Unit Chief is polite enough to wait for her to finish, crossing his hands across his stomach and watching her work.

Just as she puts her pen down, Hotch speaks up.

"So," He begins with a light grin. "Strauss just called to give me a heads up about a new Agent."

Jane smirks at her friend, reading his hidden glee as she ran her fingers through her flyaways. "Oh, so you finally convinced her of your competence?" She joked. "She actually willingly informed you?"

Hotch's grin grows, proud of his work. "I have no idea what you mean," He dismisses shamelessly. "Anyway, Dave's coming in tomorrow, so you don't have as much time as I know you'd like, but our load has been light recently …"

"Dave?" Jane asks, head cocked. "Dave who?"

* * *

"Wow," Dave comments, watching JJ walk off through the bullpen. "We didn't have that 10 years ago."

Hotch turns to him, "What do you mean?"

"Communication coordinator," Rossi saves face, ever the smooth recovery.  
"Right." Hotch keeps his grin on the inside, "Well a lot's changed. We have our own embedded doctor now. Technically two, but only one is medically trained."

"Two doctors in the BAU …" Rossi's eyebrows go up, impressed, "I didn't realize that the team would get injured enough to warrant one."

"We do see enough crime scenes and injured victims to warrant a forensic pathologist and ME," Hotch points out dryly. "Getting patched up is just a perk. Come meet the team."

* * *

"Ohmigod," Rossi hears behind him, turning to face a very colorful woman using a file to block her view of the screen. "What is that?"

Dave is frankly rather distracted by the sheer amount of _ color _this woman is wearing - right down to the pink highlights in her bleached hair - and her rather vocal reaction, which is his excuse for not noticing the second woman until she speaks.

"JJ, turn that off, will you?" The woman - dressed distinctly in black - asks the Media Liaison and Communications Coordinator, gently nudging the colorful woman's hands away from her face once the image is gone. "Penny, you're fine."

"It's gone?" The first woman - Penny - asks rhetorically.

"Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia," Hotch introduces, cutting through the chaos.

As the Technical Analyst stumbles through the rest of her entrance, her introduction, and her exit, Rossi finds himself more focused on the picture the two women made than the words being exchanged.

They were polar opposites - from how they reacted to the photos to the way they held themselves to the color of their appearances. Garcia had light hair and skin, her clothes were colorful yet pale. The second woman, who was oddly familiar, was all dark hair and olive skin, wearing all black except for a wide, lavender belt that stood out starkly against the rest of her ensemble. As Garcia immediately focused her attention on him, the other barely spared him a glance. The image was paint versus ink, pigment against pitch.

But where had he seen this second woman before?

Once Garcia had left, the unnamed woman reached over the table to grab the remote from where it rested next to Agent Jareau and flicked the slide back to the faceless crime scene photo. She walks around the table, crossing her arms with the remote coming up to tap at her lips. She narrows her eyes, and something about that niggles at the back of Dave's mind.

"This was not professional," The woman declares, turning to the team. "By hand, yes. With a knife, definitely. But this person has no medical training to speak of, or if they do it's so little it shouldn't even count."

"Any idea what kind of blade would do that, Doc?" Agent … Morgan asks, tapping a pen against his notepad. So the woman was the doctor Aaron spoke of. "If it's not medical then …"

"X-acto?" She responds, tossing Jareau the remote. "Paring knife? Household, for sure, but not serrated. He doesn't seem to be one to buy specialty."

"Which means that most likely everything else he used to commit his crimes are within his typical sphere. Within his means day to day," Aaron nods, gathering up his papers.

"Well that's the sum of my expertise," The doctor - medical examiner? - finished. "I've got a consult to wrap up. I'll meet you on the jet."

Rossi watches her go, mind turning.

* * *

It isn't until the jet is in the air that Dave recognizes her.

"That's it," He suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers to point at her. "You're that doctor Gideon went to recruit in Boston."

Jane immediately notices everyone else on the plane perk up, smelling blood in the water like the little profiler-sharks they were. Even Aaron doesn't know how she was recruited, so her friend isn't likely to save her from this inevitable showdown.

"If I remember," Rossi continues, eyes narrowing with remembered irritation. "You weren't very keen on joining when we came to talk to you."

"I wasn't," She confirms, knowing that drawing this out won't help her, but honestly too stubborn to apologize. "Then I was. And now I'm here."

"That so?" Rossi drawls, more of a statement than a question. "Jill, was it?"

_ "Jane," _ She snarls before she can reign herself in. The team flinches in surprise, and she can see Morgan and Emily exchange glances.

"Is that so?" Rossi challenges, eyes flashing.

"This really the first impression you want to leave on the team, Dave?" Jane growls, her shoulders tensing.

"Can't be much worse than my first impression of you," Dave counters dryly, slouching back. "Surely you saw it in my file."

"I don't need a file to know I broke your nose, _ Agent _." Jane laughs dryly, ignoring the looks her way.

"Why? Because you're a doctor?" Rossi volleys, in full profiling gear. "Oh, no. I know. It's because someone way back all those years ago, back even before you were little Dr. Hart, living out of a shit apartment in the seediest part of Boston, someone broke yours. And you know exactly what the snap of cartilage sounds like. The bruises it leaves -"

"That's _ enough _." Aaron finally cuts in, voice firm. "Dave, enough. I get you two have history, but that is no reason to bring it out here. Either deal with it professionally or you are both off this case."

Jane buries herself back into her paperwork, resisting the urge to rub her fingers over the bridge of her nose.

* * *

"Dr. Hart," Jane answers on the first ring.

"Did you really punch David Rossi?" Penelope asks immediately, forgoing her usual greeting. She twirls a fuzzy pen between her fingers, eyes still on her screens. "Because I heard from a little birdie - that is actually a very buff birdie - that you admitted to doing that. On the jet. In front of Hotch."

A sigh comes through the line as Jane takes a second to answer. Used to her friends emotional hang ups, Penelope continues to narrow down the suspect lists idly.

"I'm not going into this, Penny," Jane finally responds, sounding tired. "But yes, I did punch him."

"And broke his nose, Janey." Penelope reminds her.

"And broke his nose," the doctor repeats, sounding a little amused. "So does LeFey give you all the gossip, or just the dirt on me?"

"No comment," Garcia grins, delighted by the shift in mood. "I'll just plead the fifth on that one. But _ you _can talk."

"My using you to know when Morgan keeps his injuries from me is not the same as the big lug gossiping about the drama between me and the newbie," Jane protests, stubborn.

"Oh, is that so?" Garcia giggles. "And hasn't Rossi been in the BAU since its founding up until his retirement like seven years ago?"

"Ten," Jane deapans. "And he just started. He's a newbie."

Jane hangs up on her.

Garcia snorts, ending her side of the call, and goes back to work.

* * *

"Hey, are you … okay?"

Jane glances up at Reid, a smile tugging at the side of her lips. Uncomfortable with emotions as her fellow Doctor tended to be, he was a friend. Somewhere along the line, that's what they became.

"Yeah, Spinner, I'm okay." She confirms, trying for a reassuring look. "I don't actually have a problem with Dave. Just … what he represents."

"What … does he represent, then?" Spencer asks, brows furrowed.

Jane sighs, bracing her hands on the back of the conference room chair.

"You don't have to-" Spencer starts to backtrack, but she cuts him off.

"Nah, it's fine." She sighs, pushing herself off the uncomfortable office chair and busied her hands by straightening the files on the desk. She clears her throat. "I didn't want to join the FBI."

He falls silent - not even shifting with his bottled up energy - and she takes the moment to collect herself, gazing through the window to the bustling police station. "I didn't," She repeats, finding her words. "The first time Jay came to my door with Dave at his heels I was a broken, messed up clinic doctor far too overqualified to stitch up bar fights and diagnose STDs."

"Really?" Reid asks, faintly disbelieving. "I thought you were a forensic pathologist before you came here. You do have the training for it."

"Oh, I do." Jane grins wryly. "But I wasn't using it. There's such a shortage in this country - in the world, even - that I think that I offended Dave, sitting on all that talent, that knowledge. His voicing how I was wasting my life was why I decked him."

"You really punched him," Reid echoes, amazed. "Because he said you were wasted outside the FBI?"

"No," She shakes her head. "I punched him because he tried to pretend he knew me, pretend that he understood why I made the choices I did."

A pause.

"What changed?"

"I did, I guess." Jane admits, pondering the simple question. "It was late October, later that year, when I called Gideon back. I was dealing with all these drunk college kids getting alcohol poisoning from stupid Halloween parties, and I couldn't believe that my life was coming down to that. All I had was a revolving door of patients that I would never see again, and I made no real impact on their lives."

She grimaces, glancing over at her friend. "The help I gave anyone else could've," She confesses. "And I realized that I wanted to do something that only I could do, for the first time maybe ever. So I made the call."

"I'm glad," Is all he says, and they turn back to the case.

* * *

Jane successfully managed to avoid interacting with Rossi for the rest of the investigation without dodging him outright, but of course the moment they're on the jet in a small confined space she gets cornered.

Surprisingly, though, she gets double teamed.

"I don't do threesomes, Aaron," She throws out, trying and failing at humor.

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Dave voices mechanically, "No."

"Then we're on the same page," Jane deflects, trying in vain to end the conversation before it began. "If that's all, gentlemen?"

"Of course it's not that easy," Hotch comments dryly, an eyebrow raised.

"You know what they say about cornered animals, Aaron," Jane warns, but it's no use.

They sit down across from her, and she reluctantly closes her files.

"I owe you an apology," Rossi starts, and Jane is actually so startled that she has to take a moment to actually hear what he said.

"What?" Jane responds dumbly before finding her feet. "For what, exactly?" She gathers herself, responding sardonically.

"For how I treated you when we first met."

Jane sits back, scanning the obviously eavesdropping team, locking eyes with a rather guilty Reid. Jane shoots him an arched look, accepting his transgresion, and turns back to Rossi.

"Now, we both know you're going to have to be more specific than that."

Rossi grimaces and raises a hand to stroke his beard, a tell if she'd ever seen one. He's nervous, meaning it's genuine. He'd never be nervous about a lie.

"I presumed to know you, back then." Dave clarifies, clearly embarrassed and frustrated for the sake of his past self. "All I saw was a young woman with an amazing mind who was turning a friend away cold because of reasons that I couldn't understand."

"That you didn't _ choose _ to understand," Jane corrects, but she's losing her harsh edge. "I shouldn't have socked you, but you kinda deserved it."

"Yeah," He chuckles, his good nature shining through. "Yeah, I did."

"Start over?" Jane asks, extending her olive branch.

"Hello," Dave smiles, sticking out a hand. "SSA David Rossi. I just re-joined the team."

"Dr. Hart," Jane smirks as she takes the proffered hand. "They call me Jane."

**Edited 4/19/20 - Continuity**


	12. 12

"Focal retrograde amnesia?" Hillenbrand hissed at him, seething and trying to keep it together. "_Focal retrograde amnesia_?"

"Cece, this doesn't change that he strangled those women," Aaron reminds the district attorney, calming her down. "This will change your prosecution, but it is not insurmountable."

"How do we even know that he's not faking this?" The lawyer grits, shoulders tense. "This could just be some defense he's cooking up to try and get out of his sentence."

Hotch pauses, thinking.

"You know," He starts, mind racing. "I do know someone who can help with that."

* * *

Jane's phone rings, but considering she was in the middle of pulling the skin of Anderson's knuckle - a casualty of the recently damaged coffee machine - back together with a sterilized needle and thread, she can't answer it. Luckily, Reid just reaches over and plucks it from her satchel for her, putting it on speaker.

"_Jane,_" Aaron's voice sounds out. "_According to the doctors, Brian Matloff has focal retrograde amnesia._"

"Sucks for him," Jane comments dryly, the beginnings of apprehension building in her gut. "Sucks for your lawyer friend too."

"_We don't know the validity of it,_" Hotch presses forward, and Emily, shamelessly eavesdropping from her desk, begins to eye her intently as she no doubt starts to notice her tension at his words. "_And the doctors can only confirm tissue damage, not the full validity of his loss of memory claim_."

"So brain fingerprint him, Aaron." Jane deadpans.

"_And we will,_" Hotch agrees, voice firm. "_But that's not going to be enough and you know it._"

"So what do you want from me?" Jane asked, knowing that her voice is going brittle and her coworkers and beginning to notice how disquieted she is. "Officially, all I'm here for is to look at your dead bodies and blood stains. Got any of those, Hotchner?"

Over her head, she can feel Spinner and Emily exchanging glances, reading far too deeply - and most likely in all the right ways - into her responses. Sometimes she hates profilers.

"_You are the most knowledgeable of our team when it comes to amnesia, Dr. Hart, and your assessment will be invaluable to our case,_" Hotch insists in his Boss-Man voice.

"Yet completely inadmissible in court," Jane dismisses. "As in: I refuse to testify, Hotchner."

"_So tell me what you find: I speak for all of us, Jane,_" Hotch pressures. "_I am your Unit Chief, Dr. Hart._"

Jane grits her teeth, finishing off her final stitch. Anderson retracts his arm warily, retreating quickly after a muttered thanks.

"Fine. Come back once you finish scanning his head."

Then she reaches over and plucks the phone from Reid's loose grip, hanging up on him.

* * *

"The brain fingerprinting may have just killed any chance we have of putting Matloff away," Hotch confides in Rossi as they walk through the bullpen to the rest of the team.

"The DA isn't required to enter it into evidence," Rossi offers, even if they both know that there isn't much chance of that.

"No, but he can get it on discovery," Hotch counters grimmly, glancing at Rossi. "And you can bet he's gonna use it."

"And that's why I distrust all technology," Rossi tries for humor, but it lands dead when they come up on the rest of the team. Jane, who's sitting on the edge of Reid's desk with case file in hand, is wearing a miserable expression and Hotch knows that he's the only one who really understands what put it there. Namely: him.

"What's up?" Rossi asks, concerned, and Hotch has to stifle the instinct to shush the older man. "Something about Matloff?"

Jane shrugs stiffly, eyes locked on the brain fingerprinting results in front of her. "That's the thing," She starts, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. "As much as we all believe that he's guilty, you can't beat brain fingerprinting by cheating."

"So how'd he get over?" Morgan asks, butting in. "You just said nobody could beat this test."

"The damage to his parietal lobe must have been more extensive than previously thought," Reid supplies. "The brain injury could have literally deleted his memories."

"Oh, he did the murders," Rossi shrugs, blunt. "And we'll prove it, what he remembers doesn't matter."

"Here's the thing," Jane buts in before Prentiss can start spinning philosophical hypotheticals again, snapping her case file shut. "There are four possibilities, but the numbers aren't being cut down fast enough."

"Possibilities?" Emily echoes. "Cut down?"

"Possibility one, he's guilty and he is lying about the amnesia." Jane starts to elaborate, eyes on the far wall. "The fingerprinting eliminated that one. Down to three."

"Two, he's guilty but has amnesia," Reid continues, seeing her thought pattern. "That's still on the table."

"Three, he's innocent and has amnesia," Jane continues. "Four, he's innocent and doesn't have amnesia."

"Why would he lie about the amnesia if he was innocent?" JJ asks, confused. "He could plead not guilty and plead his innocence through the trial."

But Jane is shaking her head, frowning. "If it wasn't for the amnesia as a hiccup that everyone is focusing on, it would be a far more clean cut case, even with the dead witness," Jane explains, eyes going up to Hotch. "So clear cut that we could speed it on through the circuit without time for an innocent man to get his side out, and Option Number Four Matloff would know that. So he throws amnesia in as a roadblock, and builds a defense that won't get him convicted."

"That also would apply for him being guilty without amnesia," Morgan protests. "Number One."

"But the fingerprinting disproved that," Reid objects.

"What are you saying, Jane?" Hotch cuts through, eyes locked with the doctor.

"I'm saying I'll do it."

The team turns fully to watch the staring match between their Unit Chief and Doctor, thrown off guard.

"Oh?" Hotch comments lightly, carefully not playing his cards too soon.  
"Oh don't play coy, Aaron." Jane snaps bitterly, snarling lightly. "It doesn't suit you. This all -" she gestures at the group "- has been to push me to play the game your way, because no matter how sure you are of that profile, part of you still wants to be certain. So you want me to cut down one more possibility."

"What are you talking about?" JJ interjects warily, confused by the out of character animosity. "Jane? Hotch?"

"Oh, Hotchner here just wants to make sure that our Matloff isn't lovely, _stupid _Number Four," Jane replies with false chipper. "Who's up for a road trip? It's been a while since I've been to a _prison._"

* * *

Jane removes her satchel, shoving it roughly into the provided locker alongside her gun, doing her best to ignore her teammates as they do the same. She may slam the door shut and yank the key out with more force than strictly necessary, but she's pissed at Aaron so it's okay.

"Doc, you still haven't told us why we're here." Morgan probes tentatively, prudently aware of how much she's an angry wasp nest at the moment.

She ignores him, focused on signing in and following the gestured directions of a guard. A distant part of her is impressed with the self control of Morgan not to ask again, but the rest is too focused on not blowing her top.

"Jane, calm down," Rossi tries to reason with her, placing a hand on her shoulder and slowing her down. "Just because you're angry with Hotch doesn't mean that you should resent him for asking you to do your job."

Jane's calm shell finally cracks as she throws off his hand glaring at the older man. "I'm not angry with Aaron because he asked me to do my job, Dave." She hisses sourly. "I'm _pissed _with him because he's asking me to go beyond my contract. This isn't what I signed up for, and he _fucking knows it_!"

They've come upon the holding cell Matloff was being held in, and she finally turns to face them. "Let me be clear," She captures their attention, voice icy. "Little known fact: when it comes to the active status of my BAU agents, Aaron doesn't argue with me - Aaron _can't _argue with me." She narrows her eyes dangerously, "If either of you walk into this holding cell before my interview of Matloff is finished, I'll pull you both off the active duty roster for a month before the door can even swing fully open."

She pushes her way into the interrogation room, leaving two stunned agents behind her.

* * *

"Who are you?" Matloff asks tiredly. "I already talked to lawyers and doctors and police. What do you want now?"

Morgan walks up to the one-way mirror as Jane walks up behind the empty chair, her posture almost bored. Derek can't help but wonder again what they are doing here. What Hotch wanted Jane to do that made her so angry at him for asking.

"My attorney told me not to talk to anyone. Not to say anything." Matloff continues once his initial question went unanswered, wary.

"I'm not really here to ask questions," Jane corrects tiredly, hands gripping the chair's metal back. "In fact, I don't even want to be here. But I was asked to come all the same, even though it isn't my job."

"What is your job, then?" Matloff asks curiously, and Morgan and Rossi exchange glances. This Unsub had barely said anything since waking up, and he's engaging with Jane within minutes. "Why are you here?"

"Right now, my job is to tell a story," Jane hedges.

Matloff and the agents both are left blinking in confusion at that, but like always Jane plows through before anyone can get their feet under them.

"There once was a girl," Jane starts, her posture curling over as she locks her eyes on her hands. "She had no name. She had no face. She had no memories, no past - nothing."

Morgan watches at Matloff shifts, uncomfortable.

"Now this girl was abandoned and lost." Jane looks up at Matloff, "Abandoned by the people who took her identity, lost by the people that wanted to give it back to her. She was left alone and forgotten by everyone in the world."

"Why?" He asks.

"Because she lost everything she used to be," Jane answers, sardonic humor dripping from her voice like acid. "Because no one wants a radio that won't play, or a book that has no words, or a knife that won't cut..."

"She wasn't who she used to be," Matloff finished, eyes on his hands. "Who they said she should be."

"She was lost for a long time, this girl," Jane continues, eyes somewhere beyond him, as if Matloff had never spoken. "But like all lost things, she was eventually found. They picked her up and dusted her off, like doll found on the sidewalk after the neighborhood kids go in for dinner. They asked her questions, who she was and where she came from, but she didn't know.

"She didn't have the answers They wanted. She didn't have any answers at all." Jane pushes off the chair, arms loose as she began to walk aimlessly and slow, studying the room. "Didn't know the right things to say, the right person to be. So They built her from the ground up, choosing for her - how she cut her hair, how she dressed, how she walked. Everything she didn't know, They made up answers for her, making the choices for her; crafting her into the image that They wanted - expected."

Jane sounded bitter. Morgan was unsettled, worry mounting.

"She didn't even know how old she was, so They gave her an age, too," Jane laughs, crossing her arms, and Derek feels the tired sound bounce around his head. "And then They found out that she knew things, things about the world - about people and how they ticked - that They could use. She was told by Them, 'We found you. We took you in and helped you. Now you must help us.'

"So They put her in classes, told her what to read and what to learn. What to ask and what to answer. She was the perfect little robot; all you had to do was wind her up and she'd do whatever you asked." Jane smiled wanly. "Even go through medical school, of all things."

Rossi's shoes creak as she shifts, and Morgan can't tear his eyes away from Jane to check on him.

"This girl," Matloff, in the brief pause, begins tentatively. "Is she real?"

"I have no reason to lie," Jane points out dryly. "Would you rather me not finish?"

"No -" Matloff objects, almost desperately, before he collects himself. "I … You can finish."

Jane smiles, and it breaks Derek's heart how exhausted she looks.

"She made it through all the classes They wanted, speeding through too fast because she knew too much," Jane picks up again. "Until she finally finished her schooling years earlier than They thought she would, and They were so _proud_ -" venom drips from the word "- that for her graduation, They decided that she could have a _gift_."

Jane leans back against the wall, a hand coming up to tug at a lock of hair.

"After years and years of choices being made for her, for who she was and how she lived, They told her: 'To be a doctor, you must have a name. You may pick your own.'"

Jane laughs humorlessly, and Matloff looks on with sympathy, totally engrossed in her story.

"_You may pick your own_," Jane repeats. "Years and years and _years_ of not fighting, of being the little cookie cutter girl who did what she was told and didn't ask questions, didn't object, and she finally been given the _gift_ of picking her own name."

"Didn't they call her something, for all those years?" Matloff asks, disbelieving and confused. "They had to, didn't they?"

"They called her what people always call people with no name." Jane snorted, "They called her Jane Doe."

"Like John Doe."

Morgan feels Rossi stiften beside him, even more if possible, and let out a low and indescribable sound. When Morgan glances over at him, the older profiler is turning ashen in the low light.

"Just like," She agrees. "But she said to Them, 'I'll keep my name. Why do I need a different one when I've used the same for years?'"

Jane's lip twitch as she continues, eyes dead and voice bitter, "But They laughed at her, all teeth and condescension, and said 'You can't be Jane Doe. You'll have patients come in after accidents and they'll be Jane Doe. You can't take that name.'"

"But that's the name she chose." Matloff protested, brows furrowed. "They said it was her choice. It _was _her choice."

"No, it wasn't," Jane shoots down. "It never had been and never would be."

Morgan takes a moment to glance over at Rossi, the older profiler standing coiled with a hand clamped over his lips as if nauseous. But Jane starts to talk again before he can ask his friend if he was okay.

"The girl knew that if she didn't fight against them now, she never would. She'd be a pawn on a chess board until the day she died," Jane continued, eyes distant. "She wasn't brave. Wasn't strong. Wasn't anything at all, because she was too busy pretending to be the perfect little girl, the puddy in everyone's hands, that she never learned who she really was. If she had bravery, she didn't know it. If she had strength, she'd never used it."

Jane ducks her face, lips twisting at her boots, before leaning to rest her head against the wall, boneless. "But she did have the wealth of knowledge she remembered, the only thing that was left to her when the world left her to rust." Jane continues through heavy lidded eyes. "So she searched in her head, desperately scrambling for any scrap of rebellion she could use."

"What did she do?" Matloff asks, voce sotto.

"Do you know how many words there are for a deer?" Jane asks rhetorically, posture straightening as she pushed off the wall, eyes on Matloff properly for the first time since she walked in. "There are does, which are the female deer; fawns, which are the baby deer; and then there are bucks, which are the males. Not only, but there are French and German and Old English words for all of them, like cerf or hirsch or Hart …"

Morgan feels his eyes widen, everything suddenly falling into place …

The cryptic remarks, not talking about the past. Tobias Hankel and how she mocked him. How she talked to him in Chicago -

The same way she _always_ named herself.

"I never introduced myself, did I?" Jane asks as she drops into the chair, extending a hand to the Blue Ridge Strangler. "Dr. Jane Hart, but They call me Jane."

* * *

Brian Matloff takes her hand hesitantly, as the rest of what this woman was saying caught up to him.

"You're her," He mutters faintly, eyes wide. "You're …"

'_Like me.'_

"My boss sent me here because he knows that there's a chance you could be faking the amnesia." Dr. Hart states bluntly, and Brian can feel the familiar tension building in his gut. "But he also knows that I can read people, I know when they lie to me about their health, their condition. Comes with the medical degree, I suppose," her lips twitch.

Dr. Hart - _Jane_ \- who might be the only person who truly _understands_, if her story was true, locks eyes with him. "You are the first person I have ever told that story," She tells him, and his breath catches. "A dead girl walking, a stranger in a strange land, an obedient doctor ... I don't know who I am, never have. I don't know who you are, either, not really. No one does."

"But I do know that look in your eye, Brian," She insists, voice thick. "I saw that look every day for four _long_ years. It's the look where you wonder who you were, who you _really were_. Where all you want is to know if you take your coffee black, or if you prefer tea. If you mother would sing to you as a kid, or if your dad would tuck you in at night. If you got good grades, or only just managed to get by."

She crosses her hands on the metal table top, leaning forward.

"But most of all," Her voice drops. "You want to know how you got each and every mark on your body. If the patch on your knee is from you falling off your bike or tripping over a toy car. If you scraped your knuckles on asphalt or if you bruised them as a schoolyard bully. If the scars are from defending yourself, or being defended against. Your hands, you know they're covered in blood - you can _feel _it. But is the blood is yours? Or someone else's?"

Brian swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from her. Helpless in the onslaught of her words. How far they resonated within him.

"You want to know if you're the monster under the bed children that makes children call for their mommies and daddies."

He swallows dryly. Her eyes bore into him, looking into his soul, examining him like a bug under a microscope … or a body under her knife.

"So tell me," Jane presses. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't remember the man you used to be, the phantom that people tell you you were. Tell me that I'm not the only one drowning in a bloody past they fear more than anything to come."

His mouth is a desert, and it takes a moment to work up the spit to wet it.

"I don't remember," he whispers, voice cracking.

She looks at him. Nods once.

And she gets up, straightens her jacket, and walks out.

* * *

Jane is thankful that Morgan and Rossi are silent when she walks out of the room. She doesn't look at them. Can't.

They remain in a thick silence until they've recovered their things and are approaching their SUV. Jane pulls out her phone, hitting speed dial and placing it against her ear. Hotch picks up on the first ring.

"He's not faking the amnesia," she states flatly, and then immediately hangs up.

Jane just takes a moment, her fist curled around the phone and pressed against her forehead, to just close her eyes and _breathe_. Because she knew that talking would hurt. That letting it all out, even to someone who might even _understand_, would be putting salt on a raw, weeping, open wound. But it was so much worse than she could've even imagined.

She flinches when Morgan puts his hand on her shoulder, stiff as he pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her close. Her fingers curl around his bicep automatically, and even through the sleeve of his shirt and the cloth of her gloves she can feel his warmth. His fingers card through the hair at the base of her neck, gentle but firm, and she allows herself to relax into it.

When was the last time someone hugged her? Even Garcia hadn't … Penny was still too wary, too unsure of where they stood. Had she ever been hugged?

Could she really never remember the feeling of someone else's arms around her?

She'd already cried all of her tears. She cried her tears 12 years ago when she woke up scared and alone without even her name. She cried 8 years ago when she broke away and _finally_ started to figure out _who she was_. She cried them all, till there was nothing left.

But if she hadn't, she was sure she would be crying them now.

"When I came to see you, in Boston." Rossi's murmurs nearby - voice soft as if he was talking to a skittish deer, his footsteps tapping against the concrete. "You had just gotten away from 'Them', hadn't you? Moved to Boston, so you could make your own choices?"

Jane nods against Morgan's chest, the knot in her chest loosening as Morgan rubbed circles against her back.

"That black book, the one that Hotch writes in - that Gideon used to write in?" Morgan continued hesitantly, the sound rumbling in his chest. "They write down things that you remember, don't they?"

She forces herself to push off of him, pulling away from the comfort, and tucked her phone into a back pocket and as she scrubs at her face. "Yeah," she confirmed, straightening up. "Sometimes things slip out, but I don't realize that they do. Aaron keeps track for me."

"Do you want to know?" Rossi asks, head tilted. "Who you are?"

"I don't," She shakes her head. "I don't want the memories back, I don't want the life of a whole different person. I just … I just want a name."

"Okay," Morgan agrees, voice soft yet determined. "We'll get you that name."

Something in his face rings alarm bells in her head, and she can feel her panic rising. "Wait! Don't -" Jane chokes out, grabbing Morgan desperately.

"Don't what?" Dave asks, voice level.

"Don't force it," Jane pleads, scrambling for words. "I don't want to know because- because you picked me apart and I don't -"

"You don't want to lose what you have now," Dave finishes for her, stepping forward to peel her fingers off of Morgan's wrist gently. "And we won't. We'll put things we notice in the book, just like Aaron's been doing."

"And one day, _once you're ready_," Morgan takes her hand gently, squeezing lightly. "We will all sit down with my Baby Girl and get you that name, okay?"

Jane swallows. "Okay," She says, collecting herself. "Okay."

"Then let's head back, that okay?" Rossi asks gently. "You up for more of Morgan's terrible driving ability?"

She nods, a small smile on her lips as tension bleeds from her, and they all clamber into the car.

* * *

Rossi waits until Jane's door is closed behind her before he beckons for Morgan to join him in his office, closing his own door firmly after them. Morgan pulls out his phone, finding the desired contact and putting it on speakerphone as it rings. The artificial tone sounds three times before it's picked up.

"_I presume this is about Jane,_" Hotch's voice filters through the speaker, sounding resigned. "_Or more accurately, why no one ever told the team._"

"We can't help her if we don't know what to look for, Aaron," Rossi criticizes. "Who knows how far we would've gotten if you'd _told _us."

"_And pick her apart? Or treat her like she's made of glass, or maybe a piece of meat?_" Hotch bites back, "_Because that is exactly what she _never _wants to happen. She's fought so hard to figure out who she is. We can't destroy all of that progress, not for a name._"

"So what, we profile our friend on the side?" Morgan bites scathingly. "In between serial killers and arsonists we catalogue everything she does - behind her back - so that she can maintain some illusion of _normalcy_? Does she even like being called 'Jane'?"

"_No_," Hotch admits, and Morgan cradles his face in his palm in frustration. "_But she refuses to use any other name until she either remembers or finds out her own. That's the one thing she has absolute control over, and we can't take that away from her._"

"Speaking of her 'lack of control'," Rossi buts in, voice as smooth and dangerous as a Mafia Don. "Who is this 'They'. I think I'd like to meet them."

"_Get in line_," Hotch growls low and dark, and Morgan snorts in agreement. "_But I don't know, not in detail. Best I can tell - and from what Gideon and I have pieced together - she woke up with no memories twelve years ago on the outskirts of, or nearby, some town, a small one in the rural South. She gets taken in by the town - the Church specifically, as Gideon thought - and they press so many expectations and standards on her that all she can do is play along and do what they say, because they - intentionally or not - manipulate her into thinking that she has nowhere else to go._"

"They ship her off to med school so she can 'pay back her keep' once they realize her intelligence," Rossi infers, crossing his arms in thought. "She realizes what the rest of the world has to offer, and resents the town. She plays along, goes the specialization that would be of the least use to them - the criminal and forensic route - and then pays them back as quickly as possible before breaking all ties."

"She gets out," Morgan continues. "Travels, doing odd jobs, and then lands in Boston."

"_And then Gideon finds her,_" Hotch finishes.

"Jason said that he found Jane at a crime scene of a murder that the locals thought was connected to another two. She was trying to get to her apartment, and she was arguing with a detective insisting that there were no connections between that crime scene and the last two, rattling off a list of reasons that the MOs might've been the same, but the scenes were completely different." Rossi snorted, "She just wanted to get to bed after a long shift at the clinic, but some greenhorn was flaunting the serial killer angle to try and impress her."

"_From the way Gideon told it,_" Aaron buts in, amused. "_Jane, exhausted and grumpy, broke down the entire crime scene and tore apart their entire argument for the connection by citing newspaper articles, what she saw in front of her, and the yarn that the newbie was spinning at her. She turned out to be right, and Gideon managed to point the PD in the right direction before they caught both murderers._"

"Did Gideon know?" Morgan asked, cupping his chin in one hand. "That she's an amnesiac? When he tried to recruit her."

"_No, but he figured it out,_" Hotch admits. "_He confronted her about a year after she joined, but she never actually explained anything. Jane insisted that she was never asked, so she never lied, and that it was none of our business. When Gideon pushed, Jane impressed that all she wants is her name, and Gideon and I begin to record her oddities so she could finally have one of her own._"

"But you're not just going to stop at her name, are you?" Morgan asks, disbelieving. "She made it sound like her past had a lot of messed up shit."

"_She doesn't want to be told,_" Hotch lays down reasonably. "_But she hasn't told us not to look._"

"_That's_ what she is afraid of," Rossi realizes.

"_What_?" Hotch asks.

"Jane's been on edge, this entire case." Rossi explains, hands waving. "At first I thought it was because the two of you were fighting, and then I thought it was because she had to talk about her lack of a past, or that the case involved amnesia - but it's none of that."

"What are you getting at?" Morgan asks, brows furrowing.

"She said something, at the prison," Rossi continues. "Something about marks on skin on blood on hands - she's afraid that she's a bad person, a criminal. That her past was like Matloff's, a series of horrible crimes that she doesn't remember committing."

"But that's not possible," Morgan protests. "It's Jane. She might not be some Mother Teresa, but she's incredibly kind. She loosens up when she's around friends, around us."

"_But Matloff is a perfectly normal, completely average person in his own mind._" Hotch points out grimmly. "_He can't believe that he's the Blue Ridge Strangler. He doesn't see himself as someone able to commit those crimes._"

"Hotch," Morgan protests, disbelieving. "You can't be saying -"

"_I'm not saying anything, Morgan._" The Unit Chief cut him off, voice grim. "_But just like Matloff, we can't bend the law based off memory._"

"But she hasn't done anything," Morgan insists. "And even if she has, most statutes of limitations have passed by now."

"_I believe that the woman who uses the name Doctor Jane Hart is one of the kindest people to have ever walked this Earth,_" Hotch insists. "_But even the kindest people can be pushed far beyond their morals._"

Silence reigns, and Morgan can't look at Rossi - or even the phone.

"_I should go,_" Hotch signs off. "_Call me if you find anything new._"

* * *

"_Dr. Hart,"_ Jane answers on the first ring, and Hotch sends out a silent thanks to any deity out there that she did.

"I need you to come down to the Parkway, now." Hotch orders, eyes on the road ahead of him. "Matloff is recovering his memories and assaulted an officer. He's on the run with a gun and a car and you've established a neutral position with him."

"_I'll be there in fifteen minutes_," Jane declares grimmly.

Hotch hangs up, sharing a momentary glance with Morgan. There was no predicting how this would go down.

* * *

"That's him," Hotch calls out, and Jane follows his gaze to where Matloff is kneeling in the grass, someone in his arms.

"He's got someone with him," Jane grimaces. "She's not moving."

"All right," One of the LEOs rushes. "Let's move in."

"No, wait." Hotch halts him, an arm out to stop him in his tracks. "If we rush him, he might try to kill her and himself."

"Send me in," Jane insists. "He knows me, and if the floodgates in his head are open then he needs a trusting face right now."

"Okay," Hotch agrees warily, eyes on his friend. "Okay. But you have your gun trained on him the whole time."

She nods, drawing her glock, and he turns to give orders to the rest of the LEOs as she approaches Matloff cautiously.

"Brian?" Jane calls out, voice level. "Brain, I need to see your hands."

"Stop!" Matloff calls out desperately, turning enough that Jane can see the decaying corpse in his arms. "Stop right there, please!"

"Brian, who is she?" She asks gently, lowering her aim and continuing to approach slowly.

"She -" Brain chokes, tears thick. "She was my first. The minute my feet hit the ground, I knew right where to find her."

Matloff looks up at her, desperate and distraught and a thousand other things. Jane swallows thickly.

"I killed them." He confessed, "Oh god …"

"You remember," Jane asks rhetorically, grimm and understanding. "You remember."

"Everything," Matloff chokes. "I don't want to. I hope you never do."

Jane flinches, and she can feel Hotch's eyes on her from across the field, debating whether to come help. "I don't want to either, Brian." Jane confesses, "All I want is my name. I'm too afraid of what else I would find."

"Every moment," The Blue Ridge Strangler exhales shakily. "Every … tiny detail. I remember. But … it's still not real. It's like … the memories belong to someone else."

"Maybe they do, Brian." Jane smiles sadly. "But you still have to pay. Just like we all have to pay."

"Wouldn't you run?" He asks, desperately locking eyes with her. "If you were me? If you remembered something like this?"

"What good would that do?" Jane asks brutally, ripping off the bandaid. "Running away is useless, Brian. Running toward something is better."

"What do I have to run toward?" He asks, hand clenching around the grip of the stolen gun. "I've got nothing. I'm just going to be put to death."

"You've got a mother who loves you," Jane reminds him. "And courts who may be merciful. You've got memories of birthdays and holidays and summer vacations to keep you living. What else do you need?"

"I don't want to be the same man," He confesses, hands shaking and eyes on the dead girl in his arms. "I _don't_."

"You aren't," Jane assures him. "So prove it by putting the gun down and doing the _right thing_."

The gun falls numbly from his hands, and the LEOs fall in as Jane tears away her gaze. She holsters her gun, locking eyes with Hotch before turning toward the path and walking away.

At least she isn't running.

* * *

"Alcohol," Jane groans as they pack up the case, preparing to clear out of Hillenbrand's office space. "I need alcohol. I need so much alcohol."

Hotch raises an eyebrow, shuffling the case files in his hands, but doesn't respond. Spinner, on the other hand, looks over at her bemusedly. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Jane? We do have work tomorrow."

"I am a grown ass woman with a liver of steel," Jane declares. "And I am also _so _not above blackmail, so you both are coming."

"Jane …" Hotch starts, lips twisting sourly.

"Nope," Jane shuts him up, shoving the last of her files into her satchel. "Nopeity nope nope. I have maxed out on emotional crap today and doubly maxed maturity. I need alcohol, and this damn job makes a girl paranoid about drinking alone."

"One drink," Hotch relents, and Reid sends him a knowing grin. "And you are not driving."

"Fine by me, Aaron." Jane grins, victorious. "Fine. By. Me."

* * *

"_Yes, my Chocolate Adonis?_" Garcia answers, and Morgan grins. "_I'll have you know I'm currently off the clock._"

"Heya, Baby Girl," He greets. "I need a favor."

"_Oooooh, my favorite,_" Garcia jokes. "_But are you sure you wouldn't rather warm my bed for me?_"

"Careful, you'll get me in trouble," He laughs, shaking his head as he levels his gaze over the emptying bullpen to the door of Jane's office. "I just need a personal file of a member of the team, but I want you to keep it quiet for me."  
"_Okay …?_" She agrees uncertainty. "_Is everyone okay_."

"Oh, yeah, everyone's fine," He hurries to assure her. "Just wanted to check up on something, but I don't want to worry her."

"_Her?_" Garcia repeats. "_Who do you want the file of?_"

"Can you get me everything you can find on Jane?" Morgan asks, mouth tasting foul. "Don't dig too much. I'd just like everything you already have."

"_Ummm … okay, sure,_" Garcia agrees warily.

Ending the call quickly after that, saying goodnight and exchanging flirting taunts by reflex. He pockets his phone, surveying the empty room.

He hoped that he wouldn't regret doing this.


	13. 13

"So do you want to tell me anything?"

JJ looks up with a guilty start, Jane smirking lightly at her from the doorway to her office. The Media Liaison smiles, or rather grimaces, at her raven haired friend, a hand coming up to tug at a lock of hair behind her ear. Jane steps into her office, closing the door behind her and strolling up to JJ. The doctor takes her wrist in hand to check over her vitals, and JJ fidgets through the entirety. Even though she knows the looks that Jane is shooting her are more amused than irritated, it's still nerve wracking.

"You're not far along enough for me to be pissed," Jane assures her, retracting her hand. "Yet."

"I was going to tell you!" JJ blurts out, unable to contain her words. "It's just I only just told Will a week ago and -"

"JJ," Jane cuts her off, shaking her head with a smile. "You're fine. It's your first, and you're not primarily a field agent. If I found out two weeks from now or you were Emily, you'd be so beyond dead. But it isn't and you're not, so you're _good_."

The blonde nodded, still chalk full of nervous energy, and fights to keep her gaze on one spot. Jane, ever observant Dr. Hart, hums in amusement. "What is it?" She asks gently, mostly masking her humor. "You've got ants in your pants there, chica. What's up?"

"How - how do I even do this right?" JJ almost pleads, worry bursting through the flood gates even as her voice stays soft. "I mean, I know what my mom said about taking care of myself and I know what my doctor said about stress but I -"

"Whoa!" Jane cuts her off, holding up a hand. "Lemme get something to snack on before we dive into the medical mumbo-jumbo, yeah?"

JJ blushes, and watches embarrassed as Jane exits.

* * *

"Pregnant?" Aaron questions her later, in the middle of the New York field office, clearly trying his best to suppress the hurt he was feeling. "And you _knew_?"

"Of course I knew, Aaron." Jane rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "What kind of - a) woman and b) _doctor_ \- would I be if I couldn't recognize the pregnancy of someone I see and work with nearly every day?"

"I didn't know," Hotch comments, clearly a little miffed. "And you didn't tell me. _She_ didn't tell me."

"Not my right, bucko." Jane reminds him, an eyebrow raised. "Pesky HIPAA laws, and all that."

"That's not -" Aaron cuts himself off forcefully, reigning himself in. "Why wouldn't she tell me? The team?"

"Because she is surrounded by people that can give a two hour lecture on every detail of her life," Jane explains bluntly, shaking her head. "Because you all know not only what she does and what she is most likely to do, but also why she is who she is and who she is likely to become. The team knows things about her - even before she does and in far more detail - and goddamnit Aaron that can grate on anyone. You're luckily JJ, Garcia, and I have made it this far, honestly."

"Is it really that bad?" Hotch asks quietly after a moment, sounding weary.

"Yes," Jane admits freely. "They're lucky. They at least remember what shaped them. There's a reason that I don't want what little of my life I do have to be picked apart, Aaron. And it's not just out of fear. It's about a level of privacy that no one can ever really achieve within the four walls of the BAU."

"How do you put up with it?" Hotch asks hesitantly.

"You all make the irritation and violations worth it," Jane shrugs. "Now do you want to catch these shooters or …?"

* * *

Joyner smirks at Jane as she opens the door for them, and it takes a considerable amount of effort for the doctor to not slink around to the other side of Hotch and hide behind the Unit Chief's broad shoulders. Hotch, for his part, looks between the two of them with far too much amusement to be fair, and if it wasn't for their circumstances - ie, the pseudo-terrorist cell running through New York City - she was sure the man would be grinning at her like a fool. Why people ever take the man seriously is beyond her: Agent Stick-Up-His-Ass can give way to Aaron the Immature Fool quick as a flash.

She tries to ignore the blonde agent as they all walk to the SUV, instead imagining what it would be like to actually sleep 8 hour nights. You know, like people do in fairy tales and in the movies. Fantasy, of course - complete fiction.

"Aww, you've got such a lovely little doctor, Aaron," The British-American Agent coos, clearly enjoying Jane's discomfort. "Almost like a little doll, but with more blushing and less frills."

"Little?" Jane chokes out, cheeks flaming. "I am not little. And I don't wear frills."

"Exactly my point," Joyner laughs. "No frills. And you're under 5'4" and less than 130 pounds. I reserve the right to call you little."

"Jane, you know she's right." Hotch - the deadman - smirks at her, and she begins to plot his imminent demise. "You aren't exactly a towering figure."

"So help me -" Jane begins, stopping and twisting abruptly to properly protest -

But the explosion cuts her off.

* * *

Her ears are ringing.

Someone's touching her, and she flinches, _hard_. She tries to scramble away, but something's wrong with her leg - her thigh. Instead, she pushes herself off the ground, her hands protesting the glass and gravel digging into them as she blinks blood out of her eyes.

There's a teenager - no, a young man - who's shaking her.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks, and she has to struggle to make out his words. She raises a hand to her forehead, trying to quench the blood flowing from her hairline.

"Aaron," She gasps, memories flooding back. "_Aaron -_"

"Jane!" He hears him call back, and she shoved herself up - using the stranger as a crutch. "Jane, it's Kate!"

"_Shit_," She swears, hobbling over to Joyner and Aaron, wincing as she puts weight on her leg. That's not how her quads should feel. "Shit shit _shit_."

"She's …" Aaron struggles for words. "She's -"

"Shut up and take your shirt off," She orders, cutting over him as she collapses to the pavement. Wordlessly, he removes his tie and undoes his shirt, passing his button-down to her as she begins checking Joyner over. Her hands are shaking, and she forces herself to shove back the shock before it sets. Aaron and Joyner are talking, but Jane is entirely too focused on managing to open the top of her satchel. Finally she wrenches it open, and begins to work.

* * *

"Breaking news now," The TV announces, and Reid and Rossi both turn back to face it, bracing themselves for the worst. "We are just getting an update. The bomb is now reported to have been inside an SUV. A black SUV parked just blocks from 26 Federal Plaza …"

Reid and Rossi lock eyes, and Dave practically lunges for the phone, dialling immediately.

* * *

"Agent Rossi?" Garcia answers the phone, scrambling to get seated as the Command Post's desk. "We heard there was some kind of explosion."

"_Where are you?_" The older profiler demands.

"I just walked into the CCTV Command Post." She tells him, eyes scanning over the numerous screens.

"_Can you see anything?_"

"I literally just walked through the door," She repeats, sitting down and pulling out her laptop, juggling her phone as she goes.

"_We just got the news it was an SUV that exploded,_" Rossi informs her, voice bleak. "_A black SUV within blocks of the Federal Plaza._"

"Oh God," She breathes.

"_Now do you have eyes there?_" He asks.

"I, uh - yeah, yeah," She scrambles. "I got like 300 cameras right there. Give me a sec."

"_I'm here with Reid, but I don't know where anyone else is_."

She swallows dryly, fingers flying.

"_And Garcia,_" Rossi says just before he hangs up. "_Find them._"

She and Lisa work at lightning speed, the NYC technician finding cameras going outwards from the Plaza and the FBI analyst desperately punching numbers into her phone.

* * *

Surveying the damage. Giving Joyner a shot of painkillers. She and Aaron turning Kate on her side to find the source of the bleeding. Having Aaron tear his shirt into strips. Locating the bleeding. Using forceps to clamp the bleeding. Emergency but temporary repairs to the anterior superior mesenteric artery -

"Get me an ambulance," She orders at some point, hands bloodied and leather gloves long ago discarded in favor of plastic surgical ones.

"They won't come," She hears at some point.

"Keep her awake," She orders Hotch.

She's too focused on what's in front of her. Her awareness is shot, she can't even pay attention to Joyner or Hotch or whatever they're saying or yelling or anything. She doesn't even notice that Morgan has run up to them, crouching in front of her, until his hand is on her shoulder.

"Can we carry her?" He's asking her, and it worries her how long it takes her to process his words. She glances down at her leg, realizing the sheer amount of blood pooling under her, and quickly takes off her jacket and strips off her shirt to tie a tourniquet - using Hotch's tie to hold it in place.

"No," She remembers to answer. "Not without a stretcher. If we get a stretcher, we can move her."

They're all is staring at her, and she's too dizzy to think about why they would be, but Hotch suddenly is nodding, turning to Morgan and the other man.

"Get a stretcher," He orders them. "Go to the barricade and get a stretcher, come back for us."

Distantly, Jane realizes that Morgan is answering his phone, but her tourniquet is loosening and she has to dive back into her bag for some proper bandages for herself. She's distracted, and when Morgan runs after a retreating Sam - was that his name? - she's completely missed the exchange.

"Sam's the bomber," Is all Hotch gets out before they're both snapping around to face the approaching ambulance, sirens blazing.

* * *

JJ finally gets to the Command Center, striding up to where she can see her team.

"Emily," She calls, grabbing the brunette's attention.

"Oh thank God," Her friend breathes in relief. "Where's Will?"

"He's stuck at the airport. As soon as I heard, I went straight to 26 Fed. They're evacuating the building," The Media Liaison explains, scanning the room. " Where is everyone?"

"Morgan's all right, but there's no word from Hotch," Reid supplies, but any response is silenced by Garcia appearing on a nearby screen.

"_The bomber!_" She exclaims. "_The bomber! Derek's chasing after him_."

"What?" Rossi asks, bracing his arms against the table as he leans forward to better see the screen.

"_The bomb - it was in Kate's SUV, or under it,_" Penelope stumbles, worry muddling her words. "_Hotch and Jane are out there with her. He seems okay, but Kate looks really hurt._"

"And Jane?" Reid asks worriedly, craning his head to see over Rossi better. "How does she look?"

"_I -_" Garcia's voice catches. "_I don't know. She got thrown pretty hard, but she made it over to Kate and Hotch by -" _The Tech Analyst swallows back her fury and horror, "- _By leaning on the bomber and limping over. There was a lot of blood._"

JJ pushes back her worry, thankful that Rossi keeps the investigation moving forward.

"Where was Kate's SUV parked?" He asks.

"_Two blocks East of Federal Plaza,_" Garcia responds, latching onto the distraction. The team scatters through the room, and JJ watches as Reid grabs a marker and begins to mark up the map, feeling useless herself.

"Two blocks East and they target Kate's SUV?" Emily asks, brows furrowing.

"Have you IDed the bomber?" Rossi asks, and Penelope shakes her head.

"_Lisa's running him and dead guy through VICAP._"

"Call Homeland Security," Rossi orders, locking eyes with JJ. "They should be at all the mruder sites. See if they found anything."

She nods, relieved to have _something_ to do. "I'm on it."

* * *

There's something wrong with the EMT.

They've loaded into the ambulance, and she and the EMT are working on Joyner in the back while Hotch drives. Something's wrong, though, and if Jane hadn't lost so much blood she'd be able to put her finger on it. He's trained but …

"Get me five bags of plasma, three for her and two for me." She orders him, and shoves at the man's shoulder when he hesitates to obey fully, only reluctantly drawing out two. "I need two and she needs three. I can't reach them. _Get the bags_."

"We don't have enough," He tells her, his eyes ice cold.

"What do you mean _you don't have enough_?" She demands, and Hotch shoots glanes rapidly over his shoulder, alternating between keeping his attention on the road ahead and assessing the man critically. "Ambulances should be fully equipped at all times to accommodate major traumas and accidents - especially now. _You should have enough_."

"Why don't you have enough?" Hotch asks severely, eyes narrowing. "And where's your partner _really?_"

Recognizing the look on Hotch's face, the tone of his voice, she slips a hand into her bag. A myriad of emotions flit across the man's face as she finds what she's looking for, slowly working her thumbnail under the lip of the cap. His eyes snap to her as he catches her movement, and she barely shifts before the man lunges for her - a knife slipping out of his waistband.

Hotch yells wordlessly, slamming on the breaks as the EMT tackles her. He barely gets a hand around her throat before she's shoved a needle into the meat of his thigh, pumping him full of enough sedatives to down a small water buffalo. She pulls his hand off her, jerking harshly as pain shot up her leg.

"Drive," She coughs out, shoving the unconscious man aside as she sees Joyner begin to regain consciousness. "_Drive_!"

And with one last worried look thrown over his shoulder, Aaron complies.

* * *

"We're directing all emergencies over to Lenox Hill," The Secret Service man orders when he stops his ambulance.

"I'm SSA Hotchner," Hotch tells him, the beginnings of hysteria creeping up. "I've got SSA Joyner onboard, she was injured in a bomb blast at Federal Plaza."

"Credentials," The man orders.

"I left my jacket at Federal Plaza." Hotch begins, eyes flitting toward the Emergency entrance.

"I appreciate that -"

"Oh for _fucks sake_." Jane gripes from the back, clambering toward the front, shoving her credentials at Hotch to show to the man. The buff man looks them over, scrutinizing them carefully.

"I'm sorry, Agents, but this hospital is on a strict bypass." The man says unrepentantly, still examining the ID.

"You shut down a hospital in the middle of a _terrorist attack_?" Jane demands furiously, looking ready to chew nails and spit bullets. "Because of a _bypass_?'

"We're redirecting all emergencies -"

"_FUCK!"_ Jane cuts him off, throwing herself back into the back as Kate begins to crash. "Get us through _RIGHT THE FUCK NOW_!"

"_Please_," Hotch pleads.

The man looks into his eyes. They get waved through, and Hotch wastes no time shifting into gear and speeding up the ramp.

"Good. Fucking thing," Jane pants from the back over the compressions she was giving Kate. "You didn't mention. The possible terrorist. In the back."

"Shut _up_," He grits, hurtling toward the ER entrance.

* * *

When the back of the ambulance gets opened up, Jane immediately starts shooting off orders. "_Someone_ get that EMT in cuffs," She demands as they pull the gurney out of the bus. "Gaurd him and put him on suicide watch - he's a fucking _terrorist _so if you lose him it will _not _be on my head."

Blanching, two of the medical staff branch off to follow her orders as Hotch follows the gurney into the ER. Jane begins to rapidfire explain Joyner's condition, " - BP 50 over 30. Bradycardic with severe spinal spinal injury -"

Eventually someone gets in front of her, switching her hands for theirs as strong hands pulled her off the gurney. She struggles, but she's weaker than she usually is and all she's doing is aggravating her side. She winces, dropping a hand down to her leg, and applies pressure once she finds the bandages soaked through with blood.

"Ma'm?" A voice asks her, and the arms around her tighten as a spell of vertigo hits. "Ma'm, are you -"

Then sound blurs out, and she can feel the adrenaline leaving her. She pries open her eyes - which she hadn't realized she'd closed - and sees Hotch crash down to the floor.

She lunges for him, hand outstretched and yell strangled and wordless, but the strong arm around her waist stops her practically midair, pulling her back against a firm chest. And between the jerking motion and the blood loss, she is pushed over the edge and she sinks into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Hotch, Kate, and Jane are all at St. Barkley's hospital," JJ tells the team, walking over.

"How are they?" Rossi asks, seeing the worry on the blonde's face.

"Well, Kate and Jare are both in surgery and Hotch is in the ER," JJ elaborates. "Morgan's on his way down now. But that's not all."

Once she's sure she has everyone's attention, she continues. "As they came in, Jane told the hospital staff that the EMT that came in with them - who was drugged and unconscious - was a terrorist, so hospital security has him locked down."

The entire table starts at that, minds racing.

Then there is a scramble for the door.

* * *

Morgan rushes through the hospital hallways, eyes landing on a doctor sitting behind a desk. "Doc," He calls, catching his attention and flashing his credentials. "FBI. How're Aaron Hotchner and Jane Hart?"

"He's got acute acoustic trauma in his right ear, and I pulled shrapnel from his leg," The doctor begins, snapping the chart in his hand shut. "And she just -"

He was interrupted by a loud protest coming from nearby - one that sounded like a disoriented Hotch - and both Morgan and the doctor get up, rushing to the partitioned area. Hotch is standing there in a hospital gown, looking beat up but incredibly stubborn, arguing with a nurse who was trying to get him back into bed.

"Agent Hotchner, lie down," The doctor tries to order him loudly.

"Doctor, I'm alright," Hotch insists, looking around - searching for something.

"Hotch, stop it," Morgan soothes his Unit Chief. "Just calm down."

"Where's Kate?" Hotch asks, still looking around. "And where's Jane? She should be here."

"Kate's in surgery," Morgan tells him, trying to direct him back into bed. "And I don't know where Jane is."

"Dr. Hart is fine," The doctor placates him. "She's _fine_. She just came out of emergency surgery on her leg and side, but her head CT just came back clean and she's on track to a good recovery. She's stable."

"Where - ugh, hospital gown." Hotch grumbles, trying to get further from his bed before Morgan stops his movement. "Oh for - where are my clothes, please?!" Hotch yells, "I need to get dressed and -"

Morgan waves the doctor away as he holds the injured profiler in place. "Hotch, your go bag is on it's way," Morgan tries to focus him. "And you need to slow down, to rest."

"The EMT," Hotch finally focuses, hands gripping Morgan's upper arms. "He's with the bomber. He was gonna kill Jane. He was gonna kill _us _ \- where is he?"

"He's drugged and locked up," Morgan assures him. "We just need to figure out what he was doing in that uniform and in that ambulance."

"Get everyone over here," Hotch orders, but Morgan shakes his head.

"I'm not going to make that call until you get your ass into that bed," He tells his boss, firm.

"Morgan, I have to check on Jane," Hotch tries to barter, clearly realizing it was futile but too stubborn and worried to give in. "And it's a matter of _national security_."

"So if it's that important then you should really get back on that bed," Morgan barters. "I'll make the call, check on Jane, get a full report from the doctors, and then come update you, okay?"

Hotch finally nods, giving in, and Morgan whips out his phone to get ahold of JJ.

* * *

When Ezra Cole, the on call ER trauma nurse at St. Barkley's, first saw the woman she was screaming about terrorists while pumping life into a bloodied and broken blonde woman. She was covered in blood and soot, black hair tangled and coming loose from her tie, and shooting off facts and orders like the most experienced of trauma surgeons. There was no doubt that she was a doctor.

She was wearing a tank top that exposed her arms and neck, and it took a moment for the nurse to tear his eyes away from her. Her tanned skin was covered in blood, and that was disgusting on its own, but what was truly disturbing was the patchwork of scars webbing up from her wrists, up her shoulders, and under the edge of her shirt. The tips of something green and red - most likely a tattoo - poked out from the back of her collar, wrapping partially around her neck and encircling her scarred bicep. It was as if some deranged psychopath had used her body as a canvas for some kind of sick artwork across her skin, and the sheer number of cuts and scars made it impossible for them to all be self inflicted.

Cole had to swallow back the bile that rose at the macabre image the woman made. The stories that her skin told, the questions they brought up. It was vile.

As they rolled the gurney toward the OR, Cole caught a glimpse of the woman's - Agent's - leg and immediately ordered someone to take over compression for her. She didn't seem to register that she was even injured, as even as he pulled her off of the other patient in order to treat her ... she didn't seem to focus on him or her own health at all, only on the blonde woman. She struggled against him, and despite her being a good 8 inches shorter and 80 pounds lighter than him - Cole was no small man - part of him thought that if she hadn't been weakened from blood loss he would've lost his grip on her. Especially when she lunged for the dark haired man when he collapsed. Her going limp from an adrenaline crash and blood loss was a blessing in disguise; it was possibly the only reason that he could get her on a gurney herself and roll her into an OR.

For now he was checking on her post-op. Her prognosis was good, and she would be back on her feet in two weeks or so. Plus, she looked far healthier now that the blood and dust was washed off of her, even if she was stuck in a hospital gown in it's rather ugly pale blue color.

In a stroke of impressive and slightly unreal timing, the burly dark skinned man who flashed an official looking badge at him walked in just as she was beginning to stir. Curious about the woman and hunting for a little gossip, Ezra rechecked her vitals … because he wanted to be sure of his numbers, of course.

"Oh, Jane - thank God," The man buff breathed out in relief, glancing at Cole. "She gonna be alright?"

"Should be, yeah," Cole nods, and he sees the man relax a fraction. "She had extensive trauma to - and shrapnel in - her leg and her left side, but we managed to get it all and fix up the damage for the most part. She'll be bed ridden for a week, but she'll be back on her feet in two and free of any aid in a month or so. Lot's of PT, but overall a good recovery."

Jane - Dr. Jane Hart, as her chart said - took that moment to groan. "Ugh, what hit me?" She asks, looking over at her friend, her eyes at half mast and clouded with medication. "A truck?"

The dark skinned man came up to the side of her bed and gently took her hand, taking in her muddled gaze with narrowed eyes. "Hey, what's she on, man?" He asks, almost accusatory.

"You do realize that she just had a major surgery?" Cole asks him incredulously, raising an eyebrow. "Would you expect us _not_ to put her on meds?"

"Oooooh," Dr. Hart pulls out, eyes drawing together. "Bree's _aaaaaaaaangry_. That's funny, you don't get angry a lot."

"What?" The man's - Bree? - eyes furrow. "What did you call me?"

"Are you not Bree?" Cole can't help but ask.

"No, my name's Derek," The agent informs him distractedly. "SSA Derek Morgan - Hey, Jane. What did you call me?"

"'Called you 'Bree'," Jane repeats for him dutifully, and Cole realizes that he'd given up the pretence of checking her vitals without realizing. He resumes hastily.

"Why did you call me 'Bree'?" Agent Morgan asks gently, but also really intensely. "My name's Derek. We work together - you call me LeFey sometimes, do you remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Jane nods with the confidence of someone heavily inebriated. "Yup. You're LeFey 'cuz you're also a Morgan, like with King Arthur. And it's funny 'cuz we have a round table. But you're not a bad guy. Or magic. Or a woman."

"Then why did you call me Bree?" Morgan coaxes, with a seriousness that seemed out of place. "Do you know a Bree?"

"No - I lost my Bree. You're like him, but I didn't lose you yet," Jane chokes out heart wrenchingly, eyes tearing up as she visibly gets upset. "He was the bestest little brother ever and then one day I lost him, and they lost me, and now I'm not even a sister anymore. I'm not an anything anymore. Bree's gone an' I can't get him back. "

"Look, man," Cole clears his throat awkwardly, wary to interrupt something that seemed to be so important for the man. "I should've called Dr. Byrne when she first woke up, but I didn't and if she comes in with you agitating Dr. Hart then there goes my job. So I have to ask you to leave."

For half a second Agent Morgan looked like he was about to whip out the gun Cole could see on his belt and shoot him just so he could keep talking to his drugged up friend, but he nods his head reluctantly and turns sharply on his heel.

Warily watching him go, he waits cautiously until the Agent was out of the ER before going to hunt down Dr. Byrne.

* * *

"Are okay?" Emily asks Hotch concernedly, watching as the Unit Chief begins to strap a bulletproof vest to his chest.

"Yeah," Hotch relents, fumbling with the velcro straps. "I just want to understand why I'm still alive."

"I think the idea was to maim, not to kill," Reid contributes, his puppy dog eyes soaking in the image of their battered boss.

"Did you identify Sam, the bomber?" Hotch asks, dark eyebrows furrowed. "Or the EMT?"

Emily shakes her head, but it's Reid who answers again. "Garcia put Sam, the EMT, and the other dead unsub in every known database. Nothing."

"Why this approach?" Emily asks, pointing out the elephant in the room. "So much effort was put into this attack on the three of you. The bomb going off before you reach the car, Sam sticking around."

"The EMT aiding you two but trying to eliminate Jane once his cover is blown," Rossi picks up. "It doesn't make sense. I mean, we know how terror cells evolve. They learn from one campaign to the next. But this?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Emily sees Morgan walk in distractedly. She narrows her eyes at him, worried by his body language.

"This cell targeted a lone SUV where the only people on the street are three federal agents," Hotch says, following his chain of thought. "It doesn't make sense."

"If it's not multiple targets like we profiled," Morgan contributes, hiding his earlier distraction. "It's one target. One target, one bomb."

"Did you ever find Sam's cell phone?" Hotch asks distractedly, dabbing at his ear with a swatch of gause.

"Yes," Morgan verifies. "Garcia confirmed that it was a disposable that only called one number six times - your EMT friend."

"But why?" Hotch asks, eyes going distant as his thoughts raced. "Why would he work to ensure that three federal agents that they targeted would make it to a hospital?"

"In a city on lockdown, an ambulance with its sirens blaring and lights on?" Emily points out. "You would get through every roadblock virtually uncontested."

"And straight into a hospital with a bypass order on it," Hotch realizes, eyes wide.

* * *

When Jane wakes up fully, she's alone. And her arms are exposed.

She suppresses a groan, knowing that if anyone on her team had seen her - as they no doubt have - she was going to get a lot of questions and/or a distinct _lack _of questions in the near future. _Shit_. She had been doing _so well_.

She pushed herself up slowly, hitting the handy buttons after a second to adjust the angle of her bed. On the table next to her - rather lumpy - hospital cot is her go bag, and Jane practically lunges for it. Removing and tossing aside her IV - not particularly fond of any form of pain meds - and astutely ignoring her pain, she pulls out a suitably concealing outfit and gets changed quickly, snagging her chart as she finished pulling her shirt over her head.

She had just finished reading it over when Reid and Rossi walk in, both of them immediately adapting exasperated expressions when they see she's fully dressed - even wearing boots. At their silent looks of judgement, she tapped a fingernail on her chart imperially.

"I'm fine," Jane insists dryly, and rolls her eyes at her colleagues disbelieving looks. "Their bedridden threshold is based on those who haven't experienced extensive blood loss or trauma before. I have both, and so long as I get some crutches and eat lots of sugary foods, I'll be fine."

"You had major surgery on your _leg_ and _side_, Jane," Rossi reminds her, flabbergasted. "You've been in and out of consciousness for four days now."

"See, that's four days of bedrest." Jane argues, repacking her go bag. "And the damage was mostly from the delay in treatment, not the actual explosion. I am a doctor, Dave. Plus - bonus - I'm a hypocrite with a hippocratic oath: great combo."

"We're not going to be able to say anything to stop you, are we?" Reid asks rhetorically, giving up on the argument and instead grabbing a pair of crutches propped against the far wall. "You're not good to fly for a while, but neither is Hotch, so you'll both be driving back instead."

"How is he?" Jane asks suddenly, remembering that they were on a case last she heard. "And Joyner? And the terrorists?"

"Hotch has some damage in his right ear," Rossi informs her. "And he's sore. Joyner was touch and go for a minute there, but she's in recovery. The terrorists were going to use the ambulance to blow up the hospital. Everything else was a diversion."

"Hate it when they do that," Jane brushes off. "Now grab me a doctor. I'm checking out AMA."

* * *

They're almost an hour into the drive back, Jane delegated to the backseat and not fully complaining as she was about three seconds from falling asleep, when Morgan clears his throat so loudly and awkwardly she's half concerned he might have damaged something in there.

"Cough drop, LeFey?" She asks him sarcastically, eyes at half mast.

"You were kind of in and out there, Doc," Morgan starts, throwing a glance at her through the rearview mirror. "Before they took you off the strong stuff."

Hotch turns his head, cocking his head at the younger man. Jane is just kind of confused. "I woke up before the 4 days were over?" She muses, not really bothered by not remembering that. "I mean, sure. If I was on the good stuff then it makes sense I don't remember. Why?"

"Jane …" Morgan locks eyes with her through his reflection. "Does the name 'Bree' mean anything to you?"

"... No?" She almost asks, digging into her memory banks. "I don't think so at least. Maybe an old patient or a case file?"

"Why?" Aaron asks sharply, eyes gaze laser focused on Morgan. "What did she say?"

"I said what now?" Jane asks, but is ignored by her teammates. She rolls her eyes, figuring that it's just another random thing she almost-remembered when she was drugged out of her gills. Not in the mood for the conversation that would inevitably take place, she grabs earbuds from her bag and pops them in, plugging them into her MP3 and ignoring the profilers in favor slouching back onto the seat.

Probably wasn't anything really important anyway.

* * *

Derek waits until he's completely sure that Jane is distracted by her music before he glances over at Hotch again. Morgan's nervous, because even though he read through the black book, this is by far the most significant thing that anyone has recorded about Jane - and he hasn't even written it down or told anyone yet.

"Morgan," Hotch deadpans, eyes locked on his.

"When Jane was loopy," Morgan begins, checking Jane through the mirror again worriedly. "She didn't call me Morgan, not at first. Or Derek. Or LeFey."

"She called you 'Bree'," Hotch infers. "Why?"

"Because I was like him? But she said something afterwards, when I asked who Bree was," He continues, averting his eyes in favor of the freeway ahead. "She said that Bree was her little brother."

Derek swallowed, feeling Hotch siffen beside him. He glanced over and saw his boss twisted partially around to look back at Jane, who was leaning against the side of the car with her eyes closed, earbuds in.

"And," He swallowed slightly, stumbling over his words. "Before the nurse kicked me out, she said: '_I'm not even a sister anymore. I'm not an anything anymore._'"

Hotch turns back to face front again, expression stony. "We don't tell her," He orders, and Morgan hates the part of him that's relieved at the command.

He didn't want to be the one to tell his friend that part of her mourned the loss of a brother she didn't even consciously know existed.

* * *

"Jane's gone home for the day," JJ announces as she walks into the round table room. "Anderson is driving her home."

The team gathered around the table as if for a briefing, only this time it wasn't for something as simple as a case. It was about their colleague and friend, and everyone knew different things in differing amounts.

"What _happened _to her, Hotch?" Reid asks, face pinched with worry. "Those scars … there's only so many ways marks like those can develop."

"Hotch," Rossi speaks to the Unit Chief lowly, pulling the senior profiiler's gaze from where it rested painfully on their young genius. "I think it may be time to pool all of our knowledge. Get everyone on the same page."

Reluctantly, the dark haired man nods. And with the help of Rossi and Morgan they lay down everything they know. The silence their words are greeted by is a stunned sort of shock, and it takes a moment for the team to gather their words in response.

"So Jane …" Garcia starts, voice thick with unshed tears. "She doesn't remember anything? Her name, her family? Even … even how she got those scars?"

Morgan shakes his head, and Garcia brings a hand up to muffle her choked back tears.

"We were worried that she was abused, or attacked, or … something," Emily says, amazed. "But this is so much worse."

"We _cannot_ go searching for her identity," Hotch stresses, and it says something that no one even protests his order. "She's suffered a lot, more than we realized, and if she starts remembering anything who knows what trauma she'll uncover."

"And a _brother_?" JJ asks faintly, hands shaking. "She has a brother named Bree that she can't even remember unless she's in a huge amount of pain?"

"Don't treat her differently," Rossi warns her, eyes sweeping the room. "That's precisely what she's afraid of. What she wants less than anything. We record data, we write it down. But we _do not_ do _any _major searching -" He locks eyes with Garcia, incredibly serious. "- until we know far more than we do now. We won't be able to keep it from her if we do."

"Garcia, do you understand?" Morgan asks, all traces of his usual banter gone. "This is bigger than we realized. Absolutely no searching through those databases of yours; you know that you wouldn't be able to keep it from her if you'd find anything."

"No, yes - of course, I mean," Garcia stumbles, stopping to gather herself. "I won't, Morgan, sirs. I promise."

Tense silence follows. Luckily, it's broken by Reid holding out a hand, palm up, to Hotch expectantly. "I'd like to add something to the book," The genius states, wiggling his fingers slightly. "I've picked up a lot over the years."

Hotch reaches into his bag and hands the notebook over. In his gut, a sense of accomplishment begins to unfurl, and part of him can't help but be satisfied with the silver lining of this shit show of a case.

* * *

**BONUS**:

"Aaron, you're so dead."

Hotch glances up to see Jane, propped up by two crutches liberally decorated by Garcia, glowering at him from the doorway of his office. The contrast between her scowl and the baby pink, glittering headband against her raven locks has him stomping down on his urge to laugh, and he stands to maneuver the doctor into a nearby chair. He pulls his office chair around to sit across from her, prudently offering his wrist to her as she fumes.

A minute or two later, Jane looks significantly less furious and all his vitals are checked and apparently given an all-clear.

"_Dave_ had to tell me you were near gunshots and _heavy machinery_?" Jane demands from him, still irritated. "What part of 'hyperacusis' and 'tear in your eardrum' do you not understand, you fucktard?"

"That's not very PC," Aaron can't help but point out. "Not very becoming of a Federal employee."

"I'll show you PC," Jane grumbles. "And that's not the point. Not only did you potentially _permanently damage your hearing_ after I made an _exception_ for you, but _you _didn't tell me. Dave did."

Wincing, Aaron realized how badly he messed up. He opens his mouth - to apologize, to reason, to argue? Who really knows. But Jane cuts him off before he can get a word out.

"You are benched, Hotchner," She smiles at him sweetly. "Until such a time I can guarantee your complete recovery."

Aaron swallows back his childish response, instead simply nodding and taking the lumps as they come.

"Good," Jane nods, struggling to her feet. "Don't do that again."


	14. 14

Reid had been staring at her from his desk through her open office door for the past 20 minutes, and she's about fed up with waiting for him to say something when he gets up to talk to her.

"Prentiss and I are going to Colorado," Reid leads with, and Jane nods her acknowledgement. "We're visiting a community almost completely cut off from the outside, and I don't think that they have access to a lot of healthcare opportunities."

Jane really looks at Reid for the first time, eyeing his nervous demeanor underlied by his firm determination.

"You want me to come along as a token of goodwill, to set the stiff cultists at ease," Jane lays out.

"Not only that," Spinner confesses, relaxing slightly at her clear understanding. "But the people of the Ranch shouldn't suffer illness or injury because they choose a different way of life."

Jane smiles genuinely, and nods as she stands, snagging her cane as they went. "Let's grab Emily and pitch it to Hotch."

* * *

"I don't like it," Hotch tells her once Prentiss and Reid had left, presumably to pack.

"You got me the forms and the ID and the a-okay," She reminds him. "Not sure what else you're wanting from me here."

"I want you out of the field until you're healed," Hotch frowns, eyes on where her hand is clenched around the body of her cane. "You can't even run yet and you want to go into a Seperatist Ranch?"

"I shouldn't need to run, it's just an interview," Jane assures him softly. "And I'm just there to provide medical aid to the people of the ranch. It'll probably even be an advantage, seeing as I'll be all the less threatening this way."

Hotch sighs, but waves her out of his office.

* * *

"Tell us about the 911 call," Spinner asks, reaching into the front of the car to snag the case file again. Jane keeps half an ear out as she double checks her satchel and duffel, making sure that none of her supplies were damaged on the flight over.

"I believe that the 'he' that they referred to is the church's leader, Benjamin Cyrus," Nancy Lunde, the Child Protective Services officer, told them; she drove with one hand on the wheel and the other curling up to her face.

"Benjamin Cyrus," Spinner echoes, flipping pages at nearly an eighth his usual speed. "No criminal record … no record at all, really. Uh - what else do you know about him?"

"It's rumored that he's practicing polygamy and forced marriages," Lunde replies grimmly, eyes firmly on the rough terrain she was navigating.

"Any idea who the caller is?" Emily asks, mind no doubt running all the possibilities.

"Jessica Evanson is the one who the age fits but … well, we can't be sure. So I negotiated interviews with all the children." Lunde glances over, frustrated. "It wasn't easy."

"Well, considering their view on outsiders, it would be best if you didn't identify us as FBI," Emily impresses on Lunde, passing her gun and badge back to Reid and accepting IDs back in exchange. "Just use our real names and introduce us as child victim interview experts."

"Except me," Jane chips in, for the first time in the ride over bringing attention to herself. "I'm here as a favor to Spinner - Dr. Reid. I'm a friend of his who volunteered to bring additional medical aid. If they ask me to stay the hell away from them, or even insist that I need to leave, we bend to them. I'm not here in an official capacity."

Lunde glances back in the rearview at her, but Jane keeps her face neutral; when Emily nods her confirmation, Lunde drops it.

As they pull into the Ranch and clamber out of the car Jane hangs back, leaning against the car with her satchel slung across her chest and her duffel at her feet. She puts all her weight on one leg and traces the grip of her cane with her fingers as her coworkers walk toward the building in front of them. As they exchange introductions and initial words, she keeps her gaze soft focused forward; propping herself up against the car. Open and nonthreatening.

"And who might she be?" Cyrus' voice floats over, the cocky man taking a couple sauntering towards him.

"This is my friend, Dr. Jane Hart," Spinner introduces her. "I asked her to come."

"For what reason?" Cyrus asks sharply, eyes narrowing but his body language staying loose and open.

"With your permission," Jane opens, not moving and shifting her gaze to focus on the Church leader. "I am here to provide medical supplies and aid to those who will accept it. I am completely at your disposal -" She emphasizes, playing off the man's superiority. "- and I will only act as much as you are willing to allow me."

"And what do you mean by that?" Cyrus prompts, coming level to her.

"In the duffel at my feet are medical supplies and a handful of books on field medicine and rudimentary first aid," Jane explains, gesturing with her chin but keeping her gaze on Cyrus. "In my satchel is more specialized kit. The duffel is yours no matter what, but I can also contribute my medical training to treat anyone you wish, ranging from illnesses to injuries to less extreme health concerns. If I am unwelcome, I will either stay out of your way in a designated spot of your choosing or the car. If you are truly unhappy with my presence I will arrange for a ride off your property."

Jane is sure to keep her voice level, not pushing but allowing Cyrus to have full control over her presence. She just hopes that between being a woman, short, a doctor, and clearly disadvantaged - what with the cane - she'll quickly become a non-factor.

"Well then, Dr. Hart," Cyrus finally speaks, reaching out a hand. "We would be delighted to have you working for us."

She takes his hand, mindful of the phrasing, and stoops to pick up her duffel.

* * *

"This Dr. Hart," Cyrus walks up to Reid as Emily organizes the interviews with Lunde. "You know her well?"

"We shared a mentor," Reid answers truthfully, before cocking his head and revising his answer. "Or rather, my mentor was a close friend of hers. We got to know each other over the years and I asked her to join me here when I heard that I would be asked to come to your Ranch."

"Why was that?" Cyrus asks with a faked causal air. "You must know, surely, that we do not always take well to those outside our Church."

"I hoped that she might be able to help," Reid treads carefully. "It seems unfair that one of your people may have to choose between their health and their ideals. I asked Jane along because I knew that she would treat anyone who came to her, regardless of who they are or what they believed. She takes her Oath very seriously."

Cyrus' eyes are on Jane where she's talking to a middle aged woman about the splint she was carefully wrapping around her finger, explaining each step so that the woman would be able to replicate it herself with reasonable success.

"Yes," Cyrus muses thoughtfully. "I can see that."

* * *

Jane ignores the men with guns yelling at everyone to evacuate long enough to finish tying off the last stich in an increasingly alarmed twenty-something before she raises her hands and allows herself to get patted down and her bags searched.

"We just got a very strange phone call, from a news reporter," Cyrus threatens them subtly. "Is there anything you want to tell me - about a raid, maybe?"

Jane feels her eyes widen involuntarily, and she starts swearing internally and doing the math of whether or not she has enough supplies to treat this many people. Not even close, that's for sure. This isn't going to end well, not with how organized the Ranch is. Especially not because Cyrus got a heads up.

"They don't know," Cyrus' declaration jolts her out of her thoughts.

Once they're in the tunnels the gunfire starts.

* * *

"Why was Jane even at the ranch?" JJ asks Morgan lowly in the back of the jet after the briefing, wary of Hotch or Rossi overhearing. "Isn't she still using a cane?"

"Yeah," Morgan grimaces, glancing at the senior profilers. "Reid asked her to tag along to provide medical aid to those who didn't pursue it because of their beliefs. If she is still there, she's providing first aid and treatment to those who got shot in the raid."

"Is that a good thing?" JJ asks, not liking the look on Morgans face.

"They aren't likely to kill her outright, at least not now," Morgan allows. "But with the recent injuries the ranch just suffered and her particular skill set, she just became a _very _valuable asset - one that Cyrus isn't likely to let go easily. That's what's got Rossi and Hotch so upset."

"You mean that Jane could die because she's too valuable to let go?" JJ asks, incredulous and fearful.

Morgan nods solemnly, and makes his way back to his seat.

* * *

"Where's Lunde?" Emily asks Cyrus, worried for the CPS officer who'd run out.

"It wasn't us," Cyrus tells her unfeelingly and with faked compassion. Emily can feel Jane flinch - she only barely reaches out to catch the shorter brunette around the waist before Reid beats her to it.

"Let me go, Spinner!" Jane tugs at his arm, eyes locked on the doorway that Cyrus and his men emerged from. "I'm a doctor, dammit!"

"And when this is over you need to be _alive_ to treat people," Emily shuts her down, knowing she was being harsh but needing to cut through the doctor's panic. "You need to _stay here_."

"Prentiss is right," Spencer soothes her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders and pinning her arms to her sides. "We're going to have a lot of wounded. We need you out of the crossfire."

Jane slumped back into Ried, cursing furiously as she bows her head, turning into Reid's tall form as Cyrus watched them all with a strange intensity that set Emily on edge.

The gunfire continues before a ceasefire is called, and Reid doesn't even try to stop her as Jane bolts for the door, demanding to know where the casualties were.

* * *

"Dave," Hotch comes up to him, jacket and tie gone in the Colorado heat. "They've left the choice of negotiators up to me."

"I taught most of the hostage negotiation unit," Rossi tells him, already going through his past students and compiling a preliminary list of his best. "You want a recommendation?"

"I'm making you the lead negotiator," Hotch tells him, and Rossi gives a start.

"Me?" He asks incredulously.

"Why go to the student when I have the teacher?" Hotch asks in a reasonable voice, as if his suggestion didn't flip everything on it's head.

"Because the teacher is emotionally involved," Dave reminds him. "So is the agent in command."

"I know I am," Hotch aquiesses. "This is a unique situation. We have three agents that can affect the outcome on the inside."

"True, but I can't be objective," Rossi continues to protest. "I know them too well."

"This outcome depends as much on our ability to predict the moves of Prentiss and Reid as Cyrus," Hotch impresses on him. "That's why you're the best man for the job."

"But not Jane?" Dave asks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

Hotch only shakes his head, grimacing. "Less so. Jane is a doctor first, not an agent." Hotch reminds him. "With the number of injured she'll only resort to directly and intentionally changing the situation if there is no other option, Reid and Prentiss are dead, or if she has a _really _good opportunity"

"Let's hope that she does, then."

* * *

"You killed my mom and daddy," A little girl's voice comes through the phone. "Are you going to kill me too?"

Morgan winces.

"No one is going to kill you, honey," Rossi assures her, voice adjusted as he speaks to the child.

"This is Benjamin Cyrus," The voice shifts. Cyrus' drawl flows like molasses through the phone line. "Who I am talking to?"

"David Rossi, an FBI Agent," Dave introduces himself, "We sent the state police away, There's just us and the local sheriff …"

Morgan hears, processes, and analyses everything that Rossi and Cyrus were saying, but he's detached right up until -

"Now, the three child service workers …?" Dave trails off.

"One of them is dead," Cyrus tells them, uncaring, and Morgan feels his stomach drop. "It wasn't us."

"I need a name," Rossi gathers himself, keeping his voice level. "To inform the family."

"Her name was Nancy Lunde."

Morgan kinda hates the part of him that's glad it wasn't Prentiss or Reid.

"And the other woman?" Rossi pushes. "The doctor?"

"Dr. Hart is alive as well, and we're taking good care of her."

Morgan watches as Hotch's shoulders loosen almost in sync with his own at the first part, only to immediately stiffen in the second. The reminder of the extra danger that Jane was in wasn't welcome.

"Now please, Benjamin, send out your wounded," Rossi continues on. "I promise you they'll be well taken care of."

"With enough supplies we can tend to our own," Cyrus counters. "And good Dr. Hart cares not for sides in this war. You have hospitals and we do not - she will treat our wounded."

Hotch and Rossi lock eyes, and Morgan knows that they're calculating. Analyzing how long she has before she outlives her use.

"Ok," Rossi aquiesses with fake ease. "I need a few hours to put it together. I'll bring them up myself at first light."

* * *

"He told them it was poison?" Jane asks incredulously, using the torn out lining of her jacket and her canteen to wipe the last bits of blood out from under her nails. "Damn."

Reid nods, scooching closer to his friend. "It's a good thing you were tending the wounded," He tries to joke. "You would've run around like headless chicken trying to get everyone to purge what they just drank."

"Yes, yes I would've," Jane assures him grimmly, leaning against his shoulder tiredly. "But I might've also tried to tear -"

Emily shushed her - just in time too - as a very angry Cyrus came in with two of his cronies, looking furious.

"Grab her," Cyrus orders his men, gesturing to Jane. She yelps as one of them grabbed her, pulling her against his chest with the body of his assault rifle digging into her back.

"Which one of you is it?" He demands, drawing a gun from his waistband when they only looked at him confused alarm, eyes flicking between him and where Jane was being held. "Which one of you is the FBI Agent?"

"Why do you think one of us is an FBI Agent?" Spinner asks, voice soft.

"God will forgive me for what I must do," Cyrus prays before he levels his gun right between Reid's eyebrows.

"_Spinner,_" Jane hisses, clutching the arm of her captor and straining against his larger frame. Cyrus' eyes flick to her, but Reid speaking brings his attention right back.

"I - I don't know what you're talking about," He tries again softly, puppy dog eyes on full blast.

"One of you does," Cyrus insists. "Who is it?"

"Me," Emily confesses. "It's me."

Jane feels her stomach drop and her anxiety rocket up. She gapes unattractively before she forces her jaw to snap shut. Hopefully it added to her and Reid's credibility.

Cyrus lowers his gun, clicking on the safety. And then he grabs Emily by the hair, dragging her out to the room kicking while Jane can't do anything to stop them, caged in by some meathead diehard's arms.

* * *

It sickens Jane, but she sat down across from Cyrus and reaches over, carefully examining his knuckles from where he pummeled her friend, her family. It's a crude mimicry of how she examines her team after every case, nearly every day in the office, to assure herself that they're safe. It sickens her.

She keeps it off her face.

"Did you know she was FBI?" Cyrus asks, but she knows it's not aimed at her so she dabs as his knuckles in silence. Just a tool, she supposes.

"Nancy told me the woman was a child abuse interview expert from Denver," Reid tells him after a moment. "In the four years I worked with her, Nancy never lied to me before."

"As far as you know," Cyrus corrects sardonically. "Their law says that a 15-year old is a child. 50 years ago that same law said a 14 year old was an adult. Have children changed so much in 50 years?"

'_Ugh, the preaching.'_

"I can't tell you the number of times I've investigated abuse charges against small religious groups," Reid confides in Cyrus sympathetically as Jane began to organize the medical supplies.

They continue to talk, and Jane would've paid attention if not for her finding one of the bugs as she was checking the amount of medical tape in one of the rolls. Controlling her reaction to the point that it was barely there, she carefully slipped it into the fabric of her glove, right in the inner curve of her wrist. She just prays that another one is still in the room; she has to trust that Aaron and Dave wouldn't be stupid enough to have only one.

"And you?" Cyrus is addressing her, and she turns to face him. "What do you think of the laws of this country."

"I don't care about laws," Jane shrugs, shifting to open up her body language. "I took an Oath that is technically legally binding - but I follow it to the letter not because I fear the government and its punishments but because if I fail to uphold the Oath I will be punished accordingly by a higher power. '_If I do not violate this Oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help_'," She quotes.

Cyrus seems to think that's enough, looking extremely satisfied with her answer. Jane pretends that she was lying when she told him that.

As Reid begins to profile and manipulate the cult leader, she slips out to check on her patients. As she passes through a quiet hallway, she lifts her wrist to her lips in a mimic of a yawn.

"I'm bugged," She whispers.

And she carries on, trusting and Reid and hoping that she can find a way to get to Emily.

* * *

Jane makes a beeline straight for her when they release everyone into the chapel, and Emily can't even pretend to be surprised. She accepts Jane's familiar hands with grace and a small measure of comfort, knowing that even in this messed up hostage situation at least Jane will never change. Reid appears a moment later, hiding his pain at seeing her like this.

"He looks pissed," She whispers to Reid, and Jane grunts in agreement. But she recognizes that look on Reid's face. "It's not as bad as it looks," she tries to play it off.

She takes Jane's lack of scathing comments that she's correct in her assessment, even as she winces when Jane prods a rib wrong.

"I'm so sorry," He apologizes, clearly guilty.

"Look at who he's releasing," Emily distracts him, nodding at the room.

"It's the one who failed the loyalty test," Reid vocalizes it, eyes switching between the room and Jane's careful ministrations.

"We'll get word to the team," Reid starts. "Wait for a sign from outside to indicate what time the raid will come."

Jane stops abruptly and carefully begins to peel off her gloves, one finger at a time. Emily watches her movements carefully, noting the oddness of it. "Reid, will you hold my gloves for me?" Jane asks him suddenly, passing them to him in a scrunched up bundle. "I've got a bug bite on my wrist that's driving me nuts."

Spencer's eyes widen, and Emily has to shut her mouth against asking _how in the hell did Jane get a wireless bug and stick it in her gloves?_

They all part ways.

* * *

"Jane's a _genius_," Rossi breathes, listening as his three teammates talk. "That bug she picked up is going to save us a lot of trouble."

"Jane didn't sound alarmed or sarcastic, so it's likely that Emily isn't severely injured." Hotch extrapolates. "And we know now that they're looking for a signal. We've run out of time, and we they need to have a raid, tonight."

"But we don't know what's happening with Emily or Jane," Morgan protests. "Shouldn't she have given the bug to Prentiss? Or kept it herself?"

"Reid is closer to Cyrus and is more likely to hear his plans in detail. And she couldn't risk giving anything to Emily, not with Cyrus' men watching. The way this is being played makes it so that doubting Jane at all threatens Reid's cover almost directly," Hotch says grimmly. "Jane'll have to take care of Emily. She's got a lot of mobility, it sounds like. They see her as a neutral asset, neither good nor bad, but leaning towards good."

"Will that be enough?" Morgan asks.

Neither man had a good answer for him.

* * *

Hotch stands at the whiteboard, looking at the pyramid Morgan drew with a marker in his hand. "The plan depends on Reid, Prentiss, and Jane separating the diehards from the followers."

"And delaying Cyrus' diehards from reacting to our assault," Morgan adds.

"That's not my main concern," Hotch shakes his head and turns to face him. "Reid and Prentiss know what they need to do, and Jane knows how to follow the cues they give her."

"So what is your concern?" Morgan asks.

"Letting them know when we're coming," Hotch grimaces. "The whole thing hinges on them being ready for us at 3:00 AM."

His eyes alight on the top of one of the fried chicken containers and he's struck with an idea.

"Perfect."

* * *

"I know what you're thinking."

Reid tears his eyes up from the last glimpse he had of _3:00 AM_ written in red sharpie in Hotch's handwriting.

"You don't have to be a part of this," Cyrus continues. "You can go."

"I think I'd prefer to stay," Reid tells him, thinking of the bug he hid in the knot of his tie. "Somebody needs to tell your story."

"I'm glad it'll be you," Cyrus smiles at him. "And your Dr. Hart?"

"Jane … I got her message loud and clear when this battle started," Reid starts (_Message loud and clear_, he repeats in his mind, _when the battle starts._). "She cares about the injured and those in need - making sure everyone gets taken care of is who she is. She wouldn't leave if someone needed her here."

"I'm glad for that," Cyrus repeats the sentiment. "Now that the false believers have been cleared from our midst, we make our final preparations."

He opens a crate in front of him and begins to unpack the explosives within.

"That's a lot of dynamite," Reid comments before going silent, mind racing.

* * *

"We called bomb techs," Dave tells Hotch, walking up to his friend as he gazes out at the Ranch. "Jane is invaluable in there. Her giving Reid the bug means that we're a lot more ready than we would've been."

"Yet she's also the most at risk," Hotch sighs, shoulders heavy. "That's it, when she gets back from this we're putting her through field training and profiling courses. I can't keep doing this."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Dave drawls dryly.

They stare for a moment longer.

"I know I can't go in there," Hotch tells Dave.

"I'm going," Dave fires back.

"If something happens to Prentiss or Reid or Jane …" Hotch drags out, heavy. "I … I don't know."

"You're not alone," Rossi assures him, heart tight and nerves coiled.

* * *

"Emily," Jane hisses at her, relieved at seeing her friend but too preoccupied to rejoice. "We've got at least three wounded men that can't move on their own - get me some of the older and stronger followers to help me get them out."

"Fine," Her friend agrees distractedly. "Grab whoever you want - but be quick. This building is rigged to blow."

Jane swears colorfully, but she snaggs some helpers and _goes_ -

* * *

"Emily are you alright?" Morgan's voice calls out, and Emily feels like she can _breathe_ again.

"They've wired explosives," Emily tells him, her forward momentum nearly causing her to crash into him.

"We know, Reid told us." Morgan assures her, and she can feel tension leaking out of her like an open fire hydrant. "Bomb techs are dealing with it. Where're Reid and Jane?"

And it's back again.

"He's in the chapel with Cyrus," She tells him, feeling her hysteria rebuild. "And she was getting the wounded out."

"We gotta get you out of here," Rossi tells her, but she throws his comforting hand off.

"We gotta get _Reid_," She insists, imagining her friend with a bullet in his brain - Cyrus standing over him, smirking.

"Prentiss," Morgan cuts her off. "I will get Reid, Rossi will find Jane. _Go._"

* * *

Jane watches the retreating backs of the women carrying the injured men out. They're making their way to the tunnels, but she needs to know all the followers are safe.

She can't sit back and do nothing.

Making her way through the halls, she stays low and swiftly made her way through the halls. Room by room, door by door she checks every one. And except for dead bodies, she finds no one.

Except for Jessica Evanson running through the halls like a bat from hell.

Ignoring the twinge her thigh makes - belatedly realizing that at some point she lost her cane - she runs after her.

The moment she bursts through the chapel she can see Reid on the ground, Cyrus standing over him with his gun raised and -

In a moment of pure _feral rage_, she _roars _and launches herself at him - a scalpel she didn't even register that she'd grabbed severing his spinal cord between his lumbar and thoracic vertebrae.

She feels blood on her hands, feels sick.

And then Jessica's screaming starts.

Morgan bursts in, gun aimed right at her, and she's too busy shoving Cyrus to the ground and snarling in his face to care - ignoring his cries of pain in favor of growling like an animal at him, scalpel clattering out of her hand.

Then Jessica grabs the detonator, and Reid is yelling to _run _and they all sprinted for the door.

* * *

As Emily is hugging the life out of Spinner - only after first squeezing it out of Jane - she stumbles over to where Aaron is standing back looking at the (smaller than it could've been) blast.

"You are getting training," Aaron greets her, not even looking her way as he surveys the blast. "Official and unofficial. Reid and you can discuss profiling stats over chess, Morgan can teach you hand to hand, Dave negotiation. I'll teach you protocol."

Jane just blinks, drifting closer to her friend until she's practically tucked up under his arm. He obliges by wrapping one around her.

"And you're taking classes," He continues, his hold firm and comforting. "Dave teaches some you can get in for free, and we've all got seminars. Quantico provides plenty of training for agents."

"Are you sure you're not overreacting?" Jane asks just to fill the space, not really objecting.

"This is not the first time, nor probably the last, that you have gone in as a doctor and ended up in situations you're not trained for," Hotch scolds her. "I'll do whatever I like."

"Okay," She agrees, knowing she couldn't object and not really wanting to anyway. "In the meantime - did someone grab my cane?"

* * *

Once she clears Emily to fly, they're on the jet and getting the hell out of Colorado. She can hear Emily comforting Spencer, assuring him that she was willing to take the beating for them and that it wasn't his fault.

She'd pay more attention if Morgan wasn't looking at her like she was a traumatized child.

"Cyrus is dead, the _explosion_ killed him." Morgan reminded her gently, his keen eyes taking in her flinch easily. "But you did a hell of a thing in there."

"He was gonna hurt Reid," Is all she can think to say, and does she sound younger? More childish?

"Jane …" Morgan trails off, eyes locked on her. "Is this your first time? Have you … can you remember ever hurting anyone before?"

She shakes her head. He pulls her into a hug.

The rest of the jet pretends that they don't see her shaking.

* * *

**A/N:**

I received a lovely review from someone (thank you, UN) who asked if Jane was at all like Jane Rizzoli, who is a fictional homicide detective. I realize now that I haven't given super precise descriptions of what Jane looks like, only outlines.

And, because I know that some people really appreciate having someone to picture, I'll provide one. Keep in mind, Jane exists to be someone in your head you can put to the name and the situation - feel free to disregard anything I say if you have a stronger idea already in place. I know I do that sometimes.

Jane is around 5'3" going into 5'4"; a strong wind won't bowl her over, but she isn't particularly sculpted nor sizable. She is, however, healthy and strong, as she has the training expected of a field agent and the additional she included to sustain her own health as a medical professional. She is an ethnically ambiguous woman with thick and curly black hair and an olive complexion. I pictured her with hazel eyes that change in the light to add to her ambiguity, and she nearly always has her hair up in a messy but serviceable bun.

Jane wears all black, all the time - down to the paint on her fingernails. She wears fingerless gloves, clothing that goes down to her wrist, up her neck, and all the way to her ankles - tucking into her black boots. The only spot of color on her - other than her eyes, arguably - is what Garcia gives her to wear. Penelope keeps insisting that Jane wears too much dark pigment, so she gifts her friend articles of clothing that would easily fit into the Tech Analyst's own wardrobe - namely the colorful and absurd. Jane never receives gifts, so she wears every one and one a day - no matter how bizarre. This ranges from belts to scarfs to hats to headbands: nothing is too strange.

At this point in time the reader knows about Jane's scars across her arms. They are many and varied, going across her arms in a macabre mimicry of artwork, and mostly carved. Jane's tattoo, which goes across her back and over her shoulders and neck, is one singular piece but Jane implied that it had many different parts. It is at least partially green and red, and Jane doesn't like to talk about it (I know, real shocker).

More details will come later, but I don't plan on another cohesive analysis like this. I hope this is helpful.

\- Milo Of The Key


	15. 15

"Jack's reading at a fourth grade level,"

Jane looks up from her annoyingly large stack of papers at where Aaron had dropped into the chair across from her, his jacket shrugged off as he rolled up the cuff of his sleeve.

She unceremoniously shoved aside the pile, grateful for the distraction, and reach across her desk. As she found his pulse, she nodded for him to continue.

"I only found out from his teacher today," Hotch continues, fatherly pride evident in his voice. "He's really doing well in school."

"Well I'd hope so," the doctor commented dryly. "You read together every night. And he knows how much stock you put in education. He's got no small amount of hero worship for you, Rin."

"Probably not the words I would use," He teases lightly.

"But there's something else," She stated, retracting her hand, satisfied. "You would be singing more praises than reading level if that was it."

Hotch sighed, sitting back as he pulled his jacket across his thighs, straightening out the wrinkles. "His teacher says that a boy in his class is bullying him at school."

Jane glances up, confused. "What, you mean that Paulie-whatever kid?"

"Paul Kane?" Hotch provides, confused. "Why would you know about that?"

"Because the Little Bear talked to me about him - I thought he talked to _you_ about it?"

Hotch was taken aback. Why would …

"Did you tell him to invite Paul over to play?" He asked, not angry but rather curious. "Because that's what he did."

"Not really," She shook her head. "I mean, he asked me what grownups did when they had to be around people who were mean to them. I went through the standard responses - you know, kill'em with kindness, treat others how you want to be treated, yada yada. Avoid 'em if you have to. But he didn't like those answers very much, said that they didn't 'feel right'."

"So what did you end up telling him?" Hotch asked, more amused now that he had a feel for the situation.

"I told him an Abraham Lincoln quote," Jane admitted, a little embarrassed. "One of the few I know. 'Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?'. Seemed appropriate, and like something you would say."

"'Do I not…'" The Unit Chief echoed, trailing off with a smile. "I will say that I feel a lot better after knowing where that idea came from. That was a good call."

"I'm sorry, Rin, I thought he'd already talked to you and wanted a second opinion," the petite woman apologized, pulling at the edge of her gloves. "I would've told your or …"

"It's fine, honestly," He reassured his friend and colleague. "I'm glad he talked to someone."

Jane opened her mouth as if she was about to ask something, but then seemed to think better of it, turning back to her files.

"What?" He prodded her.

"I'm just-" She cut herself off. "Why did he talk to me and not you?"

Aaron smiled kindly, giving her a knowing look. "Because he looks up to you too."

* * *

"I remember this bombing," Jane confides in Rossi, looking over the file. "I mean, shooting. Case. Whatever."  
"Oh?" Rossi asks, looking up from his old notes. "I worked that case. It was before your time here, though."

"Yeah, I was in med school …" Jane trailed off, looking distracted. "I remember that. I was just finishing working with a cadaver - a kid really. Some 20 year old too reckless with his alcohol and heavy machinery. I remember that it didn't faze me that a kid - someone my age - was dead until I watched the news that night. It made it all real somehow."

"It made it real for all of us," Rossi reassured her grimmly. "Not just you."

* * *

"Oh my god, I think you were the Mean Girl," Jane caught Spinner saying as she entered the crime scene, his tone amazed and only half joking.

"Who was mean?" She cut in, walking back into the singed room with the ME report in hand. "_JJ_ was mean?"

"She was the Mean Girl in high school!" Her fellow doctor practically tattled, sounding like a child who had his favorite toy taken away.

"No, I was not!" JJ insisted, shooting a half-pleading look Jane's way. "I was actually one of the nice girls, even to guys like him!"

"Guys like him?" Jane echoed dryly.

"Guys like me?" Reid repeated incredulously. "I'll have you know that my social standing increased after I started winning at basketball."  
Jane left them to bicker, gazing over the report and pulling out a pen to annotate.

"What about you?"

Jane looked up, startled by Reid's question. "What about me?"

"Who were you in high school - I mean, I know you don't remember it but you had to have thought about it at some time."

Jane's brow furrowed as she slipped the clip of her pen to the top of the file, closing it slowly.

"I dunno," She finally answered, words slow and thoughtful. "I think … the one no one bothered. Too much effort to bully, too odd for big friend groups … the one who avoided the drama and kept to her books."

She blinks after that, surprised.

"That's good," JJ encouraged her, treating it as normal. "It would just be icing on the cake if you were bullied too."

"Pretty sucky icing," Spinner muttered, and Jane laughed and shoved her thoughts back, forcing herself to go back to work.

* * *

"Did LeFay just seriously do what I thought he just did?"

Hotch turned away from Ms. Slade to face his friend at her low murmur.

"And what did he do?" He asked dryly, loud enough for Ms. Slade to hear. The harried woman probably could use a bit of a distraction right now. Something to think about other than the bombings and the interrogation of her son.

"He gave Spinner's full name and title to the reporters instead of his own - and his phone number," Jane reported dryly. "Reid's gonna have his head."

"Why would he do that?" Ms. Slade asked, tearing her eyes away from where Rossi was talking to her son.

"Because he's a child," Jane responded automatically, but then winced at the jab to her side courtesy of Hotch's elbow "Because he and Reid are best friends and we all have cases that hit a little too close to home. A prank'll keep Reid from lingering on anything for too long."

The older woman nodded, clearly not understanding but willing to take her word for it.

"But if they get rowdy," Jane warned her friend, voice dropping so low that Hotch had to lean down to hear her. "I will absolutely kick their asses."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

* * *

Jane was in the police station sat next to Hotch, staring at a wall of photos, when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her satchel, putting it on speaker as she slid it open.

"Dr. Hart," She greeted, expecting Penny on the other end with some groundbreaking discovery. She was disappointed.

"_Jane, what do you know about Pain Asymbolia?" _Reid's voice sounded instead.

"I know that if you're proposing that someone has it you're ignoring the fact that there are only 20 reported cases of it," Jane scoffed, sparing a glare at the device. "Just move your ass. I'm not having this conversation over the phone."

"_Go_od," Spinner's voice rang out from both behind her and through her mobile. "And it's the only likely scenario."

"_Only likely -_" She cut herself off. "Only 20 cases _ever recorded_ and an unsub we haven't even _identified _is our _only likely -_"

"Jane," Hotch cuts her off, more amused than anything else."

"Shut up and let me argue," She dismisses him, eyes locked on her fellow doctor. "Just because someone isn't _likely _to be able to tolerate -"

"I know that but you need to consider the signs -"

"Despite the tolerance level of multiple other -"

"The punched and shattered glass -"

"Adrenaline and drugs are far -"

"Not shown in the profile -"

"There is almost no -"

"Even if-"

"Not-"

"Bu-"

"Okay, _stop_," Rossi cuts them off loudly, shooting glances at the staring police officers. "Jane, grow up. Reid, shut up."

They both have the decency to look guilty at that.

"How likely is this … condition to be the case?" Hotch asks, clearly not following the argument at all but trying to settle it all the same.

Jane sighed, rubbing her brow. "Spinner is right that the -"

She's cut off by the sound of Reid's phone going off.

"Spinner is right about one thing," She starts over. "If he punched through glass and was still able to beat the tar out of someone barehanded _after_ he pummeled a woman to death, his pain receptors have something seriously wrong with them."

"And if no one at the meeting Emily called was showing signs of pain then it wasn't just a spur of the moment thing." Reid added. "The Unsub's hand would've suffered extreme damage and no one showed that."

"That is assuming that the Unsub was at the meeting," Jane pointed out. "Pain asymbolia is still a stretch."

They all fall silent as Spinner's phone rang again.

"Sorry, I -"

"But if we go with the working concept that this guy can't feel pain for whatever reason," Jane cuts off his apology, shooting Morgan an annoyed look. "Then we can assume that his sense of empathy is skewed due to his lack of pain comprehension."

"A significant contributor to the way we experience empathy is the way we feel pain," Morgan continued her thought.

"And the Unsub didn't develop his sense of empathy because it was cut off," Hotch finished. "Does every person with asymbolia have this?"

"You know, all 20 of them," Jane muttered, glaring at Reid's incessant cellphone. "No, they feel it fine."

"Which makes me thing that the rest of the profile is just fine," Spinner piped in, trying in vain to ignore his phone again. "Loner, invisible, outcast, boiling _rage - SON OF A BITCH_!"

Reid practically ripped his phone out of his pocket, scrambling for his 'accept call' button.

"_HI_, this is Doctor Spencer Ried - I actually _can_ come to the phone right now with a very _special message_ that your mother is a -"

"_Reid_," Hotch cuts him off before he could say anything that he would regret.

Jane took one look at Morgan's smug, 'innocent' face and sat down heavily in a chair, letting her forehead drop to the conference room table.

"You break it, you buy it," Rossi chuckles at her, placing a hand on the crown of her head to tilt her up long enough to slide Reid's messenger bag under it. "We do need you, even if this case isn't a lot of blood and gore."

"_I'll show you blood and gore_," Jane growled as the absolute _infants _started posturing.

* * *

The case was over, the Unsub was dead, and Reid had retaliated against Morgan and started a full blown prank war between the two that brought the entire BAU into the crossfire.

Jane was as close to committing homicide as she'd ever been. She'd actually been in positions where Unsubs - super, _majorly disturbed_, horrible unsubs - were on the other end of her gun or knife and she had been less inclined to fudge some paperwork to make it seem like a good shoot.

"The bathroom is full of salt," The irritated doctor growled at JJ, itching for some sympathy and ideally also an ally for when she was eventually dragged in. "The toilets have Mortan salt containers instead of TP. The floor is covered in packets. There are _salt licks_ instead of _soap bars_."

"At least they were creative?" The media liaison cum profiler tried to console her.

"They are two _supposed '_men' fucking up the _woman's bathroom_ in a _federal building_," Jane hissed.

"In fairness, they did it to the men's too," Rossi chipped in, gaining quite a bit of amusement from her irritation. "The woman's was most likely just for completion's sake."

"Not helping, _David_," She snapped at him. "They pull one more thing like this and I'm going to _end them._"

* * *

They pulled one more thing like that.

In fact, they both hit each other simultaneously: Morgan got Garcia to program everyone's computers to play Nyan cat at full blast whenever they typed the word 'Unsub' and Reid and Emily conspired to replace _everyone's _black, professional pens with neon colors that were prone to bleeding through.

Including Hotch's. _Including Jane's_.

Clearly neither JJ or Rossi had thought to warn them.

Oh ho, her revenge was going to be sweet.

* * *

Using a favor to look after Jack at the last minute some time in the future, Jane got Hotch to pull out a case that didn't need her consultation but _did_ need Garcia's - a possible kidnapping cold case without a crime scene other than a questionable digital footprint and some old files.

Once they were all on the plane she got to work.

First she called in a favor or two, arranging for some of the janitorial staff she knew to bring up boxes - full and empty - and for the other inhabitants of the building to look the other way with the promise that she would end the war once and for all.

They didn't even know what was coming for them.

* * *

Hotch was wary coming back from the case. It was a quick one, easily resolved once they got on the scene and could process all the information as it came in. No, Aaron was worried because Jane had called in one of the favors she horded like gold to make sure they spent the resources to get on site and out of the office.

"What the _hell?"_ They heard the yell, startled by the actual almost-anger in Garcia's voice. Stomach dropping, the whole team turn back down the hall where their technical analyst had peeled off to drop her bags.

Half expecting an unsub to be attacking the normally cheerful woman, instead they crammed into the tiny office to see -

"Oh," Was all JJ could get out.

Garcia's computers were gone. All of them, from the screens to the servers to her mouse pad. In their place was an original Macintosh computer, old and filthy, complete with mouse and old chunky keyboard. It was even on, with the FBI database pulled up on screen.

"My things," Garcia gasped, looking around wildly. "My troll dolls, my unicorns - my _computers -!_"

"Oh don't tell me," Morgan groans once he gets a good look. He turns out into the hall, sprinting for his office."

His, too, was completely reworked: his desk was gone and so was his furniture, leaving only his shelves intact. The shelves, however, were full of kids art supplies and books, even a tiny backpack and what looked like a pair of snow pants. In the place of his desk was a single elementary school style (and sized) classroom desk and a single #2 pencil. To top it all off the ground was covered in toys and legos in hazardous places, crunching with each one of Morgan's steps as he spun slowly in the middle of the room - bewildered and irritated.

"Reid …" Morgan growled. "Where's my stuff?"

"Reid!" Garcia gasped, whipping around in a flash to face the genius. "_Tell_ me you didn't!"

"I didn't do anything!" He protested, eyes flickering around the room and taking everything in in an instant. "But …"

At a significantly more sedate pace - though still at a steady clip - the team headed to the bullpen, which they had rushed past in their haste. They stopped on the landing, and Dave couldn't hold in his laughter as he guffawed, clutching his side.

Reid and Emily's desks had been replaced with tables sized to fit kindergarteners. Tiny plastic chairs - and in Reid's case, carpet squares - surrounded each one; each table top was covered liberally in glitter, glue, markers, crayons, and all kinds of supplies a child would use.

But the most hilarious thing, blocking the entrance to Rossi and Hotch's offices, was a large, glittery banner written in bright red letters saying: 'IF YOU'RE GOING TO ACT LIKE CHILDREN, THEN YOU CAN WORK LIKE 'EM.'

* * *

After Hotch checked that his (and as it so happened, Rossi and JJ's) offices and things were still intact he called a meeting in the bullpen, frowning at the team.

"I want to know who did this," The Unit Chief told them in his 'I am not amused' voice. "This pranking has gotten out of hand."

"That's what I said," Jane walked in, wearing a headband with a large, glittering apple askew on the top of her head. "This war was getting out of hand."

"_Jane?_" Morgan asked incredulously, eyes wide with shock. "When -"

"While we were gone," JJ guessed, wary of getting any blame for being spared.

"I'm all for fun and games, but this is going too far," Garcia shook her head, clearly shocked by the turnabout. "You took my _computers_."

"Oh?" Jane asked, amused by their reactions. "So I should've let you guys continue to wage war in the middle of the _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ until it got the point where one of you would've been reprimanded for it? Paperwork has already been behind, how long until it affects how soon we can save someone's life?"

"It wouldn't have gotten that far," Morgan dismissed.

"Maybe, maybe not," She shrugged with put upon relaxation. "But we can't risk that. _And_ I am sick of getting caught in the crossfire and so's the rest of the building. I had to redo a days worth of work and a stack of handwritten files, pee in _counter terrorism _\- which is _full _of assholes - because of _salt_, clean silly string out of my satchel, remove rubber duckies from my office, and _so much more_. You were children, and since you made your bed, now you get to lay in it."

"You heard what she said," Hotch chipped in finally, eyes flickering with amusement. "I'm sure that Jane can conveniently locate your files, and we still need to finish up the paperwork for this case."

The sound of indignant protests was music to Jane's ears.


	16. 16

"His name's William Hightower," JJ begins the briefing, turning away from the Canadian surveillance video of the ex-soldier driving into the Canadian border post. "He claims that over the past month, he's picked 10 people off the streets of Detroit, killed them, then dumped their bodies across the border in Canada."

"Has he given up the dumpsite?" Emily inquires.

"He says he'll only talk to the FBI," JJ shakes her head, grimacing.

"Do we have confirmation these people are even missing?" Reid has to ask.

"Two were reported missing by family months ago, but they all appear to be transients. We're having a hard time finding any information on them."

"Garcia?" Hotch prompts.

"Like a bloodhound, sir," The blonde analyst gathered up her pens and files, heading for the door while the profilers plus JJ finish up the briefing.

The Technical Analyst almost immediately collides with Jane; the doctor was leaning against the wall of the hallway, clutching her side with a grimace on her face.

"Oh, sugar plum!" Penelope gasps out, hurrying to put her files down onto the floor to free her hands. "What -"

"Don't worry about it," Jane cuts her off, grimacing a smile at the blonde. "Just some cramps."

Garcia didn't believe it for a second.

"You don't have to lie to me," She told Jane, uncharacteristically serious. "You don't. If you don't want to tell me something, you don't have to."

Jane's face twitches, the way she does when she's trying not to smile and grimace at the same time, and straightens up carefully.

"Just take care of yourself, okay?" Garcia asks, waiting until she gets a nod to continue. "Okay then, want to help me look into a Vet while you eat the candy in my office?"

"Animal vet or military vet?" Jane asked her as they turned to walk - slowly, carefully - to her office after Garcia had a chance to scoop up her pile again.

"Military," Garcia replied, a little confused.

"You never know with this job," Jane laughed, and Penelope lets herself relax a bit at the genuine sound.

* * *

"It's called the Cass Corridor," Jane told them, glancing only briefly at the map. "That's where the transients and the … less than law abiding citizens frequent."

"Yes, that's where there's the highest concentration …" Reid trails off, looking at Jane intently. "How did you know that?"

"Not a memory that slipped out," Jane dismisses his clear train of thought, causing a jet-wide exhale. "But I spent months as a transient before I joined the Bureau. I was in Detroit for weeks."

"Wait, you were homeless?" Derek asked, eyebrows furrowing. "I thought that after - that you went to Boston for work."

"I didn't go straight there," Jane frowned, the base of her palm digging into her side. "Cass Cor is full of high-risk targets."

"So for this guy," Emily stears them back on track. "Maybe it's more about opportunity than victimology."

"Morgan, Prentiss, when we land I want you to head straight to Detroit; see if you hear anything in the whisper stream," Hotch decides. "I want to make sure we have a crime before we get too deeply into this."

He turns to Jane: "Do you remember the streets well enough to navigate them still?"

"It's only been, oh, half a decade," Jane jokes. "I'll be better than nothing. I can hit up some old contacts in the area."

"Good. Morgan, take Jane with you."

* * *

"Something's wrong."

Morgan glances in the rearview at where Jane is staring intently out the window, eyes scanning.

"What?" He asks her, shooting a glance at Emily. "What is it?"

"It wasn't like this last time …" Jane mutters, just barely within the range of his hearing. She didn't seem to even realize that she had spoken.

" _Jane_ ," Emily gets her attention, turning in her seat to face the shorter woman head on. When she gets her friends eyes, she continues. "What's wrong?"

"You guys don't _feel_ it?" Jane pushes. " _Look_ at them."

"They've set up camps," Derek realizes, eyes on the people on the street. "Safety in numbers. They're _scared_ ."

"I don't see a single person who's isolated themselves from the others," Emily catches on quickly.

"When I was here last they were scattered, staggered," Jane explains. "This type of living doesn't constitute a lot of _trust_ . If they've changed this much, then something _made_ them. Morgan, let me out here."

"If this guy did kill 10 people," Morgan begins to pull over, complying automatically. "I don't see how he could've done it without witnesses - what are you doing."

"You guys conduct your search," Jane told them, pulling a wad of fabric out of her bag as she began to tug at her hair tie. "I have some old contacts to hit. Call you later."

"Jane, wait-" Emily tries to stop her.

"I've got my gun," She calls out to them as she slams the door, slipping into the crowd before they could follow her or even fully protest.

* * *

"Morgan, Prentiss - where's Jane?"

The two turn to face Hotch and Reid, and they both start at the Unit Chief's reminder.

"She said she was hitting up some contacts," Derek told them. "You mean she hasn't come _back_ yet?"

"You let her go out on her own without backup?" Hotch demanded, scowling at their transgression. "We've got a serial killer targeting transients - people_ on their own_ ."

Reid whips out his phone as Hotch continues to ream them out, dialing Jane's number rapidly.

"Jane," The doctor answers, music blaring in the background.

"Are you at a _club_ ?" Reid asks incredulously, relief at her answering replaced with confusion as he put the phone on speaker. The rest of the team within earshot cut out the argument at his sudden question.

"A guy in the scene owes me one - or, well, more than one," Jane calls loudly over the sound of bodies and music. "I got some info."

"What do you have?" Hotch pushed aside his confusion at the locale. "Anything relevant?"

"I think we're dealing with more than 11 missing," Jane drops grimmly, the sound of movement coming through Spencer's phone as the volume of the music drops. "And it's not just in the last couple months. Andre says he's had regulars in the area drop off the map, ranging from dancers to dealers to working girls to old Vets. People that had constant habits and work leaving with no explanation. All in the past four or so years"

"How many people are we talking here?" Derek asked, trading wide eyed looks with the others. "How many _more_ ?"

"Thirty six I could get descriptions of," Jane admits, voice tired. "If this is the same unsub …"

"Get back here so we can ID them," Hotch orders. "We need to catch this guy."

"On my way."

"Oh, and Jane?" Hotch catches her before she hangs up. "If you ever walk off on your own when you could potentially become a target -"

"Read you loud and clear, Rin."

And she hangs up on them.

* * *

There was a gorgeous woman standing out of place in the middle of the precinct.

"Ma'm, are you-"

JJ cuts herself off abruptly, taking a step back as she got a good look at the woman's face.

" _Jane_? "

JJ's brain stuttered to a stop.

The doctor had transformed. Hair braided elegantly and up, low rise white jeans, a studded red belt -

She - _Jane_ \- was wearing a black corset-like top; it was sleeveless, strapless, and mostly backless with black cords criss crossing across her back. When JJ had seen the figure from behind, the only thing that the Media Liaison had really processed about her was the tattoo.

Underneath the leather and the silver eyelets was a black and green masterpiece: vines and leaves twisting and curling across her skin. Scar tissue followed the curves of the ink, culminating to a hatched shading of a single flower in the middle of her back, between her shoulder blades - a lily, or something similar.

And in that last split second before Jane had turned around to face her, a glimpse of red drew JJ's gaze and she only barely caught the letters '_IV_' across the back of her neck in a blood red font before she was greeted by a familiar face.

With _makeup on it_ .

It took a moment for the blonde agent to get her feet under her.

"What, you expected me to go to the clubs in work clothes?" Jane drawls dryly, pushing past her and snagging her satchel from off a nearby desk. "Where's Hotch?"

"Umm," JJ stumbled after her, trying not to stare. "We just finished up with the giving the preliminary profile to the police -"

"Oi, Aaron!" Jane called across the station. When the shock of her appearance registered, the team all collectively sputtered to a standstill. "I've got names and descriptions and dates. Who do I give them to?"

With a huff as no answer came promptly, she crossed her arms over her chest - drawing attention to the black wrappings running from her mid bicep down to bind around her hands, effectively hiding her less pleasant scars.

" … To Reid and JJ," The Unit Chief gets out finally, tearing his eyes away from Jane's red lipstick and dark maroon eyeshadow. "Then we're hitting the streets."

"Will do."

And then she turns to walk into the conference room, pulling out a notebook and shooting a look over her shoulder at her friends expectantly.

* * *

Derek lifted his phone to snap a photo of Jane through the window; he continued to stand patiently until the Doc turned to say something to Reid, getting another of her back.

Then he lifted his phone to dial.

"Hey Baby Girl," He greeted, grinning. "Thought that you might want a little early birthday present, just for you."

"Oh?" Her voice sounded, cheery and flirtatious. "And what would that be, sugar lips?"

"Take a look at the camera roll on my phone and find out."

He waited a moment as the sound of keys tapped away, and when he heard her sharp inhale he knew that she had seen them.

"No. _Way_ ." She gasped, " _Tell me_ these are real."

"I'm not the computer whiz here," Derek laughed. "And would I ever lie to you?"

"Oh, these are so _great_ !" Garcia gushed. "And she's just _wearing_ this?"

"She went out to talk to some old contacts," Derek shrugged, turning away from the window finally. "Apparently she knows the club scene here."

"Knows the - that's _it_!" Penelope decided - very loudly. "There are no more excuses! She and I are going out to party - there's no way we can't if she can dress like _that_ ! Derek, she's wearing _color_! "

"I gotcha, Baby Girl." Derek smiled, though it began to slip from his face. "But - just add that to the folder, okay?"

"The one on Jane?" Garcia calmed down, and Morgan could practically feel her nodding. "Of course, Derek. It's already there."

* * *

When Hotch realized that Jane was gone, he was both resigned and furious.

When she returned, he wasted no time to grab her - once again covered - shoulder and drag her into an empty office.

"You wandered off again," Aaron felt himself practically growl at Jane. "I told you to stay _put_ ."

"I did _not_ wander off," Jane shot back. "I went to _change_. "

"You needed to stop at a pharmacy to _change_ ?" Hotch raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't lie, you're no good at it."

"No, I'm fine at lying," She huffed at him. "You're just a fucking _profiler_ and I don't even know why I _bother_ -"

" _Jane_ ," Hotch stopped her. "Tell me what's going on with you. It's not just the city - you weren't even at the briefing. You never miss a meeting unless it's for a very good reason."

Jane collected herself, turning to face Hotch as she considered him, her eyes locked on the knot of his tie. There was still the stain of her lipstick on her lips and her eyelashes were still thick with her mascara, Hotch noted as he waited.

"Because it has to do with my health," Jane finally decides to speak. "I have some … additional health needs, and I needed a pitstop. I stuck to crowds."

"What's going on?" Hotch asked, brooking no room for argument.

"I … have some old injuries," Jane admitted, clearly figuring that there was no way she was getting out of spilling. "I used my vacation time a few weeks ago to have surgery done to fix some old damage - I'm still healing."

Aaron felt his stomach drop out from under him.

"You've been walking around all _week_ \- you've been working and not taking it easy," Hotch hissed, voice dropping dangerously in pitch and volume. "You-"

"Hippocratic hypocrite," Jane reminded him, hand coming up to scratch at the back of her neck. "And I _have_ been taking it easy."

"Not easy enough. You're benched."

"What -"

"For this case, _at least_ . We find any crime scenes, you can do your work there," Hotch finalized, face set in stone. "But you are to stay in the precinct tonight and every other night until this case is resolved."

Jane went silent, and Hotch could see when she decided to give up.

"I'll see what I can dig up about the missing medical supplies, then."

* * *

Morgan stared at the table practically dripping red onto the already bloodstained floor, eyes trailing over the sadistic scene of stolen medical instruments and farm tools. Prentiss came up behind him, and he forced himself to breathe through the nausea building in the back of his throat.

He gave the barn one last sweep, clearing it once again, before he pulled out his phone and hitting speed dial.

"Jane?" Derek got out once the phone was picked up. "I think you should get over here, _now_ ."

* * *

Crossing the border was greatly sped along by the pretty pretty acronym on her badge.

Sped up a little _too_ fast. It left a bad taste in her mouth. A bad feeling in her gut.

Jane pulled up just as false dawn began to break, only the very beginnings of Canadian police and crime techs on the scene.

"We managed to get you to be lead on this," Hotch greets her without pause as she climbed out of the car. "I don't think the techs have seen I scene like this before. But you have manpower, so you are _not_ to be directly hands on. You coordinate and parse through what _they_ get you, deal?"

Still in trouble, then.

"Yes," She resigns. "Let me get my bag and we'll see what I can do."

"And Jane," Hotch stops her, and she turns - preparing for another reprimand.

"It's more than forty seven victims."

_God did she hate being right._

She turned to open the car door again, taking her dismissal as Hotch's eyes locked on the distant pig pen over her. Just as she takes her first step -

"How long would it take?"  
The doctor paused, turning to face her friend yet again with the tiniest sliver of dark humor at the slapstick-esq routine. "I assume you don't mean me getting my bag - which is literally in the back of the car I just got out of."

"No, what-" Hotch cuts himself off, shoving aside his confusion. "Reid thinks the bodies were eaten by the pigs. How long would it take for a body to be eaten?"

"Based off what I got from LeFay about the amount of blood in the barn, I'd say they were dismembered, or at least severely cut up with what I'd bet was at least one amputation," Jane layed out. "If you're worried about Kelly, there'd still be evidence of her in the pen and fresher blood in the barn if she was dead and disposed of here."

Hotch nodded, and Jane finally got to grab her bag and get started.

* * *

"How many so far?"

Jane turned to look up from her crouch as Morgan came up behind her, his jaw twitching with the stress and anger he was pushing back for the sake of the Canadian PD.

In response she held up two fingers, and only after he shifted his wrist for her did she answer.

"Fifty six," She answered after a moment, feeling his disgust and rage fluttering beneath her fingers. "But I'd say we've at least another twenty pairs, easily."

"How …" He trails off, and Jane gripped his forearm to pull herself up, grunting as her stitches pulled.

"Are you injured?" He shifts gears, staring in disbelief as she clutched her side. "Jane -"

"I'm _fine_ ," She shuts him down.

"Can …" Derek trails off again, eyebrows creasing. "I'd like to know. And … can I have a distraction?"

She paused. Studied him. She saw the request as more than just his nosiness and worry. She sighs, _'The things I do for my friends. '_

"I had an old injury that didn't heal right," She tells him bluntly. "Stomach wound. Had surgery to reduce the internal scarring and damage recently and it's not 100% yet."

"Oh ho," Derek almost-laughs. "No wonder Hotch is pissed and watching you like a hawk."

"Hotch the Hawk," Jane muses, flashing a quick grin at her suited and scowling friend. "Well, at least it fits."

But then a crime scene tech declares another pair, a set of heels too small to be a full grown adults.

All traces of humor disappear with that.

* * *

Rossi looks up as Garcia came out from further in the house, face devastated. His stomach dropped even as he stood to intercept her.

"Garcia?"

"You should get Jane," The Tech Analyst says faintly, unable to tear her eyes off of Mason Turner. "You should -"

"Garcia, _what did you find_?" He stops her, gentle but firm.

"They were doing experiments," She gathers herself. "You should get Jane."

Rossi pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. "Experiments?" Rossi repeated as he pocketed his phone.

"Unsuccessful ones," Mason Turner - the _unsub_ \- contributed without an ounce of regret. Only correcting a fact.

"He tried to _fix_ himself," Garcia continued, full of pain and a readable amount of disgust. It was jarring coming from the usually cheerful woman.

"Would it be better if it was all for nothing?"

"They were human beings," Rossi told him, still blindsided after all of his years of how a person could be so depraved. So sick.

"They were transients and drug users and prostitutes," Mason dismissed them. "They were useless to society. I gave them the chance to be part of a cure. To be of _use._"

"But that's -" Garcia protested, silent tears falling.

"That's science," Mason cut her off, voice still flat.

"Who are you to say who is of use?"

All eyes turned to where Jane stood, latex gloves clutched in her hand. They hadn't even heard her come in.

"And who are you?" Mason scoffed at her.

"Six years ago I was living on the very streets you compelled your mentally challenged brother to abduct over 80 people from," Jane bulldozed over him. "I could've been one of your victims. Now, I am the only medical professional and doctor to ever be attached to a BAU team permanently."

She took a step forward, skirting around Dave in a smooth, almost predatory motion to stand at the foot of Turner's bed. "I was once on those streets, and I have saved the lives of more people than you have _killed_ \- tortured for experiments doomed to fail. Who's really _worth more to society_?"

* * *

"The Turner's attempts at - from what I can tell - spinal regeneration was not only sick and inhumane, but also complete pseudo science," Jane told the team as she massaged her temples. "The _very least_ that sick motherfucker could do was actually _do science_, but no. All the smart bad guys had to be _hackers_."

"Skipping right over that …" Rossi looked at her oddly, wondering just how little sleep the normally mum woman was running on to be so unfiltered. "Hotch, you were a prosecutor. Could you convict this guy? A quadripelegic who clearly never touched any of the victims?"

"I don't know," The Unit Chief grimaces, "We need to concentrate on Kelly. We can't worry about the other stuff right now."

The stern agent left - Jane trailing after him muttering about headaches and murderers - as they went to get updates from the on-scene techs.

"He might get away with this," Rossi said, but then he suddenly shook his head as if to force his thoughts back. "Reid. How much do you know about the time Jane spent between leaving 'Them' and arriving in Boston?"

"Umm, not much," Reid blinked at the abrupt change in subject. "Why?"

"Because of something Jane said in there," Rossi admitted. "She said she was in Detroit six years ago."

"A year after the Turners started killing," The genius grimaced. "She could've been one of their victims."

"I don't want to imagine it," Rossi shook his head. "If she was just another of those pairs of shoes …"

"You're right," Reid clenched his fists, gaze on the empty pig pen and the lineup of filthy footwear. "It's not something to think about."

* * *

"Jane!"

She looked up at Hotch's call, stripping off her gloves and grabbing her gun and satchel at his beckoning hand.

"You found her?" She asks rhetorically, snagging a new pair of gloves as she passed a table.

"Kelly managed to get ahold of Lucas' phone and place a call," He tells her as they join Rossi and clamber into the SUV, whatever the Canadian equivalent of SWAT following close behind them.

"Did she sound injured?"

"Scared," Hotch clipped. "I don't know any more than that."

* * *

"Kelly Shane?" Hotch calls into the hatch in the ground once Reid pulls it open, gun aimed alongside the rest of the team's.

"Down here!" Jane hears called back, and the doctor waits just long enough for Hotch to announce himself and descened before she's vaulting down, wincing as the rough landing jars both her knees and side.

"Kelly?" Jane calls out to the young woman's huddled form. "Kelly, I'm a doctor. Are you injured?"

"Yes, but Lucas - put your hands up okay?" The teen begs her captor. "You need to put your hands up."

"Kelly, I need you to come with me so I can treat you."

She ends up having to pull a reluctant Kelly away, deciding to seat her in the corner of the cellar so she could check her head.

"They're not going to hurt him are they?" Kelly pleads, wincing as Jane prodded her forehead and checked her eyes. "He's - it's because of his brother. You know that right?"

"I know that," Jane assures her, eyes flicking to the coiled form of the Canadian authorities. "But we can't do anything if he attacks us first."

"He won't, he isn't -"

"Jane!"

At Hotch's voice she whipped around in time to see Lucas getting agitated, and she felt her eyes widen.

"Kelly, I need you to climb up and out."

"What -?"

"_Now_, Kelly."

The girl gets as far as the top rung before the shots ring out behind them.

* * *

"93."

Jane looks up at Hotch, the stack of piles on her lap heavy as she takes in the image of her Unit Leader looking out over the team. She was in his office, neither of them wanting to be alone right now.

"93 what?"

"89 dead victims," Hotch says in his steady, too steady tone. "Mason and Lucas Turner. 91 dead."

Aaron turned from the window, out of place in his own office. She meets his eyes.

"Kelly Shane will never be able to live the same again, and William Hightower gave up his leg for his country only to give up everything for his sister. 93 lives destroyed."

"Aaron …"

"Sarnia, Ontario - forced to see people they spent their lives with as the monsters they were," He pressed forward, the tiniest notes of hysteria drowned out by the resignation in his voice. "The team, who will just keep looking into this abyss until it breaks them."

"You can't keep score like this," She warns him. "It will destroy you."

"Like it destroyed them?"

The silence is stale.

"Aaron, I don't think you should be alone tonight," Jane finally tells him. "We should go out for drinks, or you can kip on my couch after a movie night - some rom com that neither of us would ever touch sober. Acuka and beer and tortilla chips."

"You and your acuka," He tries to joke. It falls flat.

"No, I -" He takes a deep breath. "I just need to be in my own house, just -"

"If you change your mind -" She offers, not ending her statement, changing directions. "Call me at flipping midnight if you want. With the amount of work I have to do, I'll be up for a while. You'll regret not skiving off with me and my acuka, I can promise you that."

Aaron's lips twitch in a weak attempt at a grin.

"Don't count on it."


	17. 17

"Remind me again why I'm not at the dump site or the morgue?"

The idyllic suburbia of Los Angeles rushed by them, blurring through the windows of the SUV as they sped through. Jane was sat in the back, fingers intertwined in the strap of the seatbelt across her chest. Hotch barely spared her a glance at her question, keeping his eyes on the road.

"These parents are going to be panicking," He explained to Jane, hands gripping the steering wheel ahead of him. "We need them to feel that any opportunity we have is potentially the one that will save Micheal's life."  
"So you present an experienced medic who will be there with them to get the most updated information, and focusing solely on their son's wellbeing," The doctor finishes, nodding. "Have you considered that my presence as a reminder of any harm to Micheal may be detrimental?"

"I have, yes," The Unit Chief sighed. "But I'm hoping at least one of the Bridges' will view you as a … a beacon of hope."

"A beacon of hope," She repeated, shaking her head. "That's a new one."

The SUV falls quiet for a long moment, pondering.

"Since getting pregnant …" JJ spoke up from the front seat for the first time, trailing off as she gazed out the car windshield.

"It's worse," Hotch finished for her, glancing at her before focusing back on the road. "The same happened to me after Jack."

"It's _supposed_ to get harder," Jane chimed in, and Aaron's eyes flicked up to the rearview to catch her gazing out the window. "That means that you are seeing the world as the danger it is to your kids. If you don't, then it means your instincts aren't kicking in - and that's worse."

"Doesn't exactly make me feel better," JJ pointed out, lips twitching.

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," Jane agreed dryly. "In some ways, I'm lucky. The doctor in me sees everyone as being threatened; none of this is any worse when it's a child."

"Do you really believe that?" Aaron asked, eyebrows furrowing.

"It doesn't mean that it's any easier, Rin," She corrected firmly. "Just means that I see everyone as breakable: kids just as much as adults, adults just as much as kids."

"That sounds exhausting," JJ told her.

The rest of the short drive passed in silence.

* * *

Jane picks up her phone on the first ring, stepping into an empty room in the Bridges house to gain some privacy.

"Dr. Hart."

"_ Hey, Jane,_ " Spencer greeted her through the line. "_ Can you think of any reason a digestive tract could be completely deprived of food and the body not show any signs of malnutrition?_ "

"Huh?" Jane's head twitched at the oddity of the question. "If there's no sign of malnutrition, then that means that he was still getting nutrients even if it wasn't through food."

" _No IV line."_

"No IV line …" Jane worried her lip. "Nutritional fluids could be thin enough not to show in the stomach and intestines. Are there any signs of dehydration -?"

" _Dehydration_ ?" A man's voice came from behind her, angry and shocked.

Jane whipped around to see Craig Bridges, Micheal's father, standing in the doorway. He almost loomed with his fists clenched, form coiled and tensed against the idea of his son going without water.

"Gotta go," Jane dismissed herself, quickly snapping her phone closed. "Mr. Bridges -"

"Was he keeping water from that boy?" He demanded. "Was he -"

" _Mr. Bridges_ ," Jane placated. "I'm sorry that you had to hear that. I should've gone outside -"

"No, I need to know," He insisted. "I need to know what happened to that boy - what's _happening_ to my _son_ ."

Jane took a deep breath, pocketing her phone.

"Ethan was found with an empty stomach," Jane told him delicately, mindful of her wording. "What we do know is that he was not deprived of nutrients, which means that the Unsub is taking deliberate care for Micheal's health."

"Until he kills them."

"Until the seven days have come to an end," Jane corrects firmly. "Mr. Bridges -"

"Craig."

" _Craig_ ." She took a breath. "I think that you should be with your wife - with _Amy_ \- right now."

"Yeah, I -" He cut himself off, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

Prentiss huffed heavily as they arrive at the dump site.

"Not exactly a well-preserved scene," Rossi voiced her thoughts lightly.

"It's the crime scene investigators," She lamented. "They all want to play cop instead of just being scientists - and they end up _trampling_ on _everything_."

"Well, they can't all be Jane," Rossi reasoned.

"Oh, if only," Emily almost-laughed. "Crime rates would drop if the world was ruled by an army of Janes."

"That would be quite something," Rossi agreed. "No crime at all even. No little boys killed for no reason."

Emily shook her head, frowning at the dusty desert.

"If only."

* * *

There's a couch, low and soft and just barely into the stage of being broken in. It's long, with plump navy cushions and a square pillow at each end, one with red flowers and the other with stripes.

She's sat at the edge, too short legs curled up under her as she leans on the armrest, her elbow on the flowered pillow. She's comfortable - absurdly so - and she can smell the richness of the hot chocolate on the coffee table. The fresh, sharp smell of pine needles and cut wood coming from the tall tree with it's bows laden with ornaments of glass and wood. Strings of lights shine with color and flash with the beat of her heart, low and steady in the calm afternoon.

There's music playing too: too far away and too low to make out words even as the jazz of holiday tunes carries through the air. She can hear the bustling of someone in the kitchen, beyond her view and behind the tree. The sound of whistling in tune with the familiar record. A man. Someone she can feel a fond, aching void in place of where her memories should be.

Her hands are busy. A jacket, a man's jacket, is splayed across her knees as she reattaches a button. It's work, but work done with a type of contented fondness that she (- the she that is so alien to this foreign scene -) can't remember ever having felt before. She's humming along with the quiet music and the contented whistling, a quip about how old and threadbare the coat is at the tip of her tongue ready to be carried over the tree and the music to the man's ears -

And then she wakes, gasping into the empty room.

She nearly _sobs_.

Dreams _haunt_ her.

She can see them. Taste them, hear them, smell them,_ feel them_. But never remember. Never really remember.

The room is hot - stifling hot - and the hotel's AC is cranked on high but still pathetic at its job. The machine thrums with a choked sound that makes her want to bury her head under the suffocating comforter just to try and drown it out.

She's up anyhow, and she's not going anywhere. She doesn't even need to glance at her watch to know how absurdly early it is; too early even for her.

Fumbling blindly in the dark, one hand goes for the light on the table and the other for the bag by her bed. She finds both at the same time, and as she flicks the florescents on she sits back with journal in hand. She begins to write.

No sense wasting a memory, after all.

It takes forever and no time, writing everything down. Already the details were fading. Was it snowy? Or could she even see outside? Was the tree tall or was the room just small? What color was the jacket, the thread?

Finally she sighs, closing the book with a soft sound that still echoes in the dead room.

'_Witching hour_,' She thinks.

She studies the book in her hand. The cover might've been the same navy the couch, but the memory - dream? - is fading now. She'll never know.

She's used to never knowing.

It's a funny coincidence, she supposes. Or maybe it's not a correlation but a causation. Reid falls asleep on the plane and wakes talking about dreams and basements and babies … and the next day - night, really - she wakes up from another half remembered, distorted memory of her own.

At least she hopes it's a memory. Her mind would be cruel to give her such a dream with no hope of her ever having that kind of contented happiness before. Jane didn't even know she was even capable of feeling like that.

She peels open the cover, lifting the pages of the book and runs her thumb along the edges of the thick pages, the light sound of the pages being flipped rapidly somehow soothing to her fried nerves.

Soothing even if not all the ink covering said pages - all the dreams she'd had that seemed to real not to have some truth in them - were happy dreams. Happy memories.

At least tonight's wasn't a nightmare.

* * *

"Jane …"

She glanced up at her friend as she reaches to adjust his tie. All dressed up and ready to attend the funeral of a child; at least Jane gets to stay back at the house with JJ.

"Yeah, Spinner?" She asked him tiredly, feeling the strain of the previous night's lack of sleep crashing down on her.

"How do you deal with not remembering -?" He begins to ask, then flinches.

"Don't worry, I know that Hotch told you all," She assured him dryly. "He didn't keep _that_ from me."

"But how do you do it?" He pushes, eyebrows pinches. "You're an amnesiac, and you half remember things all the time. Many old forgotten memories come in dreams and ... they can't all be good. How do you know what is real and what isn't? The truth in the dream."

"You mean the truth in the nightmare?"

He nods, more of a twitch of his chin then anything else, but he nods all the same.

"Spinner, I know you've been having nightmares." She started, focusing on straightening the American flag pin on his tie. "And I know that you've been remembering a lot of things about when you were younger, but you need to remember that time warps memories. Especially in dreams."

"You're saying that what I'm remembering isn't real," He states, voice flat. "That I'm going crazy."

"No," She shook her head, glancing up at him again. "No, I'm saying that you have a perfect memory, Spencer, but something's got to give. You may remember some scene perfectly, but the context may be skewed by the way you now see the world. After doing this job, none of us see our memories the same way that we used to."

And Jane turns to walk out of the room, brushing past LeFey on the landing just outside the door.

* * *

"You didn't have to come with me, you know."

Jane turned to him, and Spencer felt her eyes on his right ear.

"Yes, I did," She finally said. "The Bridges were getting to me."

Spencer only shook his head and pulled the door open in front of him, allowing his fellow doctor to step into the sanitarium lobby before him.

They walked in silence before they were intercepted by the tall figure of Dr. Norman.

"Dr. Reid," He greeted Spencer, shaking his hand. "And …"

"Dr. Jane Hart," Spencer introduced. "A fellow agent and friend of mine."

Jane nodded faintly in greeting, not looking at Dr. Norman but rather scanning the room with a clinical eye.

Dr. Norman took the dismissal in stride, used to odd behavior from his patients.

"Your mother didn't tell me you were in town."

"She doesn't know I'm here," Spencer corrected, sparing Jane a glance as she studied the chair his mother was sat in, recognizing her from the Fisher King case.

He took the time to quickly explain the situation, and after handing Norman the file, he and Jane crossed the room.

"Spencer!" His mother greeted him with a smile, giving him and Jane a careful once over. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for work," He told her, glad to be recognized. "Do you remember Jane?"

"Oh, is that her name?" His mother marveled, giving the shorter woman a smile. "I just knew I had seen her somewhere before, but I thought it was off the TV."

"Can't say I've ever heard that one before," Jane gave a small, genuine smile; her gaze fixed on the neck of his mother's cardigan. "Though I have heard worse pickup lines."

"Oh, I'm too old to flirt," His mother dismissed with a laugh, cutting over Reid's sputtering. "But I could've sworn I saw you on 60 Minutes."

"No ma'am," Jane shook her head. "Never even on a press release."

She shifted then, reaching into her satchel for her water bottle. "I'm going to go fill this up."

* * *

When Jane returned, Dr. Norman had beat her there and was turning up an empty search to Spencer.

"You know, if this person has an Axis-1 condition, her release wouldn't be as important as whether or not she keeps to her medications."  
"All right," Spencer sighed, nodding. "Thank you."

"Yes, thank you," Jane echoed, giving Norman a slight, wooden smile. "We appreciate your effort."

Spencer was just puzzling over the odd looks that Dr. Norman was giving Jane when his mother sat forward suddenly.

"I went off my medication when I was pregnant with you," She recalled, hands clutching her sweater closed. "I spent every day in terror, but I made it. And it was beautiful. I had you."

"Oh god," Jane gasped, eyes wide as she whipped out her phone. "_Breast milk_."

Spencer held in a gasp of his own as Jane walked away at a clip with her fingers tapping at her phone.

"Dr. Reid," Dr. Norman cut him off before he could excuse himself. "About your coworker -"

"Friend," He felt the urge to correct him; coworker didn't sound right when it came to Jane.

"About your friend," Norman rephrased, and Spencer caught his mother's smile out of the corner of his eye. "Is she … I hesitate to ask, but has she seen a medical professional?"

"About what?" He blinked. "I know that she has some odd … qualities. We all have noticed them, but she's demonstrated no signs of psychosis."

"No, of course not," The older doctor shook his head. "I'm not suggesting that. It just seems to me that ... perhaps Dr. Hart may be an undiagnosed individual. Aspergers perhaps. Her discomfort with emoting and looking people in the eye …"

"Are also negative symptoms of schizophrenia," His mother cut in, suddenly furious and spitting nails. "And I will not be having that nice young woman institutionalized. I'm bad enough."

"Diana -" Dr Norman tried to placate her, but Spencer cut him off.

"Dr Norman, I appreciate your input," Spencer told him, resting a hand on his mother's arm to calm her, glancing at where Jane was still on the phone. "But any type of diagnosis would hurt more than help, that I am confident of."

"I understand, you know her best." Norman nodded. "Regardless, I hope you find this boy."

"So do I."

* * *

Jane was checking over Micheal when she saw the Unsub - _Claire_ \- be led past the window.

She had to take a moment to stare.

Then she swallowed back the thickness in her throat and made herself turn back to the confused and scared little boy in front of her.

* * *

"_ Yes, O plebeian?_ "

Jane had to smile at her friend's answer, "Why Penny, I'm wounded."

" _Janey_ !" The Anylist enthused. " _I thought the team was hitting the Boardwalk!_ "

"I figured that since Spinner was taking off into the night to be with his mom I'd take some time of my own," Jane smiled faintly. "But then I remembered you were all holed up in the Fortress of Solitude yourself."

" _Oh sweet cheeks, I am far more of a Bat Cave girl than a Superpeople fan_ ," She laughed through the line. " _What do you have in mind, sugar_ ?"

Jane laughed, switching the call to a bluetooth connection, earpiece hidden by her hair.

"I'm dressed to hit the town," She grinned. "How about you feed me pickup lines and bad jokes and we can see how many people I can scare off."

" _Oh ho_, " Penelope guffawed. "_ This is gonna be FUN._ "

* * *

"You," Emily states, flopping exhaustedly into Jane's chair, wrist stuck out straight ahead in good - and slightly mocking - humor. "Are avoiding Todd."

"Yes," Jane agreed bluntly, blindly grabbing her friend's wrist as she continued to type one handedly. "Yes I am."

"_Why_?"

"She's a temp," Jane deadpanned. "She's not my concern."

"She's going to be a _part of this team_ ," Emily pressed, pulling her wrist away before Jane could finish, gaining her full attention.

" _She's not JJ_ ," Jane hissed, tearing away her gaze and making a halfhearted swipe at Emily's arm.

"So _that's_ what this is about."

The two women looked up to where Hotch was stepping into the office, closing the door behind him.

"Don't you _knock_ ?"

"JJ is going to be away from your care," Hotch bowled over her. "Into someone else's. And sure, Elle and Gideon left - so did others before them - but they didn't go because of physical wellness and health. JJ, however -."

" _Hotchner_ ," Jane growls dangerously.

"You have until Reid comes back to read Agent Todd's file - _properly read_ ," Hotch gave her an ultimatum, eyebrow cocked. "Then you can introduce yourself and _allow her_ to be a part of this team, Jane."

"Fine," She agreed, lowly. Repeating herself more loudly. " _Fine_ , but JJ better keep me in the loop."

"You know she will," Hotch dismissed with a quirked eyebrow. "Now take Emily's pulse so she can go indoctrinate the newbie."

* * *

"Reid, this hypnosis thing …"

"We don't tell Jane. We can't."

Rossi looked over his friend carefully.

"Okay, Reid. Okay."

* * *

"What's with the wincing?" Garcia asks JJ, eyes narrowing at her fellow blonde's discomfort. "You okay?"

"Fine," JJ insists, not really sounding convinced herself.

"Are you sure?" Agent Todd asks the pregnant Liaison, eyebrows coming together. "I noticed this earlier."

"Earlier?" Garcia echoes, suddenly a lot of things clicking into place. She sits forward. "How often?"

"Ummm," JJ thinks reluctantly, rubbing her convex stomach. "In the last hour … I'd say every 10 minutes."

"JJ!" Garcia exclaims, pulling out her earphone. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I am not due for another 3 weeks," JJ insisted, clearly in denial.

"Newsflash," Garcia practically crowed. "You're in labor! Todd, go get Jane!"

"Who?" Todd asked, but she's quickly drowned out by JJ's protests.

"No, no, no," The soon-to-be new mother denies. "Because Reid needs us right now."

Garcia snorts at her friends stubbornness, standing to help her up. " You need you right now. Come on, get up!"

* * *

Hotch looks up as Agent Todd hurries into the bullpen from the direction of Garcia's office, looking harried. "Agent Hotchner?" She calls out to him, rushing her words, "Garcia sent me to get a 'Jane?'"

Immediately on alert, Hotch set down the coffee he was preparing and scanned the bullpen for the doctor. "Why do you need her?" Hotch asked the temp, waving Jane over once he caught her eye. "Is something wrong?"

"No - I mean," Todd stumbled, eyes flickering to the approaching doctor. "It's just that -"

"Ladies and gentlemen," Garcia's entrance cuts her off, and the room turns to see the woman striding in with JJ on her arm. "I am not a doctor - I leave that to Janey - but I believe young JJ's going into labor!"

Immediately Jane swoops in to JJ's other side, asking her questions quietly as Emily hurried over to her friend's, grinning.

"I'll get the car," Hotch calls to them, smiling at his colleague's good fortune.

As he rushed ahead to the elevator, he felt Todd following him. He glanced over at her.

"Something on your mind other than the baby, Agent Todd?" He asked her.

"Yes, I mean …" She stumbles over her words. "I was never introduced to … Jane. She's a doctor?"

Hotch quickly brushed her concern off, lying a little through his teeth. "That would be most likely due to a lack of overlap more than meaning to keep you out of the loop. She's our imbedded doctor, CSI, and ME. You've never heard her mentioned?"

" _That's_ Dr. Hart?" Todd asks, disbelieving and shooting a glance over her shoulder. "JJ mentioned that she was off on a consult when I was meeting the team. I thought …"

"Yes?" Hotch prompts her, amused as the elevator opens.

"I thought she would be older," Todd admitted. "And that she would be a bit more of a … robot."

Hotch held back a laugh at that. "You're not the first to be confused, Agent Todd. Don't worry."

"But … " Todd continues, still hesitant. "Was she wearing lime green suspenders?"

* * *

She's hyperventilating, and she knows it. Desperately she tries to slow her breathing down, but she's _suffocating_ .

Her hands clench the cool porcelain of the sink's edge, shoulders hunching in defensively. Shakily she turns on the taps, cool water filling the basin as she dips in her hands and splashes her face. The woman looking back at her in the mirror was cornered, feral, with sweat and sink water dripping down her cheeks, eyeliner smeared and skin pasty.

_Suffocating_ .

She practically rips her hair tie out, taking chunks of hair with it as sweaty strands tumble down over her shoulder. But the bit of tension it alleviates isn't enough, and she pulls off her jacket, dropping it carelessly on the nasty bathroom floor. Then goes her shirt as she lets it crumple to the ground, leaving in her just in her bra. The cool, artificial air of the hospital is soothing on her skin and Jane splashes more water on her face and neck, drawing together some sense of composure.

And for three blissful seconds, she can _breathe_ .

And then the door swings open, and her eyes fly up to see Emily behind her - reflected in the dingy mirror - staring at her back. Jane flies around, hands bracing against the edge of the sink as she tries to hide her body - tries in vain, considering the mirror inches behind her.

Emily stand there in shock, and they stand there with their eyes locked on each other as the door noisily creaks shut. The dull _thud_ of it's final closing jolts Emily out of her stunned stupor as she turns rapidly to lock the door behind her.

"Jane …" Emily starts to say, and that's the last straw.

She can't hold back her tears anymore, and her composure crumbles. She's tired and frazzled and_ it hurts_ and she clutches her stomach as she _sobs_ -

Distantly, she realizes that she's on the floor, wrapped around herself in a weak attempt at comfort, but she doesn't care.

The image of JJ holding a newborn _burns_ -

She doesn't know how long they sit there. But when the tears finally - _finally_ \- peter out, she's numb and tired and has her back to the cool ceramic of the wall. The chill from the floor seeps up through her trousers, numbing her legs.

She hadn't cried for years. It leaves her feeling empty.

"I had a baby once, you know," Jane feels herself saying distantly, and part of her wonders when she started revealing so much about herself. "I don't remember it, of course. I might've even had more than one."

She doesn't look at Emily.

"I know because of this," She points to her torso, straightening up to indicate the ugly scar running from one side of her stomach to the other - a ragged line drawn between the protrusions of her pelvis. "It's where they tore my baby out of me."

Jane swallows thickly, and she allows her eyelids to slip shut against the fluorescents of the confined space.

"I'm so sorry," Emily says softly, and Jane can only clench her eyes tighter.

"It's horrible to be jealous, isn't it?" Jane asks her, fists curling around the fabric around her ankles. "That she has what I was supposed to, but never did."

"You had a child that you never got to watch grow up," Emily says slowly. "You don't even remember having them, carrying them. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"That woman, Claire." Jane gulped, prying her eyes open to lock onto her friends dark, pitying eyes. "She kidnapped those boys because she couldn't handle not having her baby."

"You're not like her, Jane -" Emily starts, but she's shaking her head robotically.

"No, I'm not." Jane stated, voice dead as she shut her eyes again. "Because I don't feel anything."

She pushes up, scooping up her shirt and pulling it on mechanically. As she stoops to grab her jacket too, she turns to face her friend again - feeling like ice. "I'm not like her," Jane repeats, with a smile chiseled from stone. "Because I don't feel anything at all. What does that make me?"

She cleared her throat, grabbing paper towels to wipe her face. "Emily," she addresses her friend. "This does _not_ go into that book, am I clear?"

The profiler nods numbly.

Jane shrugs on her jacket, unlocks the door, and strolls out to congratulate the father of the child.

And maybe she can pretend that it's happy tears she shed.


	18. 18

"Did you do something to Strauss?" Hotch spoke from Jane's doorway, face a mask.

Given her track record with the woman, Jane actually had to take a moment to think. She put her pen down.

"No…?" Jane shook her head, taking Hotch's proffered wrist as he crossed to her. "Why? She mad at me?"

"No, I don't think so," Aaron denied, confusion leaking through his typical facade. "But she started asking about you - where you were, if you were busy, things like that."

Jane blinked. Twice. "That's …"

Disturbing. Terrifying. Intimidating.

"Concerning," She settled on. "Did _you_ piss her off?"

"No more than usual," Her friend cocked an eyebrow. "She's in her office. She asks for you to meet her once you have the opportunity to."

"So '_right now right now right now_'," Jane translated, gathering her satchel and recovering her leather jacket from the back of her chair. "Gotcha. See you in the afterlife."

Hotch was left alone not-frowning in her office.

* * *

Strauss was clearly waiting for her, even if the Section Chief was writing in a file to disguise that fact. It made her nervous. She wasn't going to like this, was she?

"Good evening, Dr. Hart," Strauss greeted her formally from behind her desk. "I'm glad that you could meet with me."

"Evening, Chief Strauss," Jane replied in kind, lowering herself into the chair across from the older woman. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You," Strauss removes her glasses from where they were perched low on her nose, gesturing at her with them. "Are spending far too much time with Agent Hotchner. That sounded as if it came straight from his mouth."

"I _am_ on his team," Jane acquiesced with a slight smile. "But in all seriousness, why have you called me here? Is my work less than satisfactory?"

"No," Strauss shook her head. "In fact, you are performing most admirably. So much so I have other units pounding at my door demanding that someone just as qualified as you join their teams."

"That's very flattering," Jane smirked, a curl of satisfaction at her work in her gut. "And what have you told them?"

"That I'm not dealing with the headache of finding another you." A smile touched Strauss' lips. "You're a miracle unto yourself."

"But that's not why I'm here," Jane pressed.

"I see that you are still just as no nonsense," Strauss opened a drawer in her desk. "This is less about you as a doctor and more about you as a woman."

"Ma'm?" She sits back, startled.

"You, Dr. Hart, fit a certain physical type that we have a need for. I would like you to go undercover."

Jane had to take a moment to blink through that confusing statement.

"I'm sorry _what_? Strauss, I'm not qualified or trained for that," Jane stumbles, dropping formalities in her shock. "Why on earth would you choose me?"

"Are you familiar with the Colemyer Legacy case?" Strauss asked instead of answering her.

"Yes, vaguely." Jane nodded. "It's come up in conversation - profilers, and all that."

"Then you are aware that the body of Marisole Ryden has never been found."

"Yes -" Jane cut off as it hit her. "You want me to impersonate _Marisole Ryden_?"

"Indeed," Strauss affirmed, pulling a single photo out of a pile of folders on her desk, passing it across the desk. "See a resemblance?"

The photo was of a young teen, maybe 15 or 16, with …

_'No. Impossible. Impossible.'_

Jane forced herself to focus on the details of the photo, piece by piece. It was cropped, apparently from a group photo, with the girl's smile blown wide and artfully lined eyes shining with joy. Her hair was down and wild, a curly mess spilling over her shoulders. Her grin was lopsided, her near perfect teeth just this side of crooked.

Jane nodded when she remembered that Strauss had asked a question, not trusting her voice. She felt a headache begin to build behind her brow.

"I thought you might," Strauss bobbed her head as she passed a stack of files to the doctor. "This is all the information we have on Marisole Ryden. Memorise and assimilate it all - we need you to pass more than casual inspection."

"Why?" Is all Jane can muster, flipping through the pages. "Why…?"

"The allotted time for claiming heirship to the Colemyer Estate is nearly up and there's mayhem," Strauss sighed, clearly frustrated with the situation. "The Estate's lawyers are in a tiz about the possibility of Ryden still being alive to inherit, considering the fallout of the company if no heir is found. A number of women have stepped forward, and considering the high profile of these circumstances, the Director has tasked the Bureau to eliminate the fakes."

"So you need an inside man to suss out the impersonators from the inside," Jane guesses. "Why me? I can't be the only Agent in the FBI who ... fits the characteristics."

"Because you are tied to the BAU," Strauss answers dryly. "As a result you've received nearly enough training and field experience to qualify you as a full fledged profiler. You fit the type, and you have enough intelligence and training to be passable."

"Despite my not having any undercover experience," Jane interjected.

"Despite that, yes." Strauss allowed. "You leave to go through the entire elimination and testing process in two weeks. We will, for the interim, hide your past identity so that even the examiners won't be able to tell you're a mole. The rest you will have to manage on your own."

"And if I can't?"

"Find Marisole Ryden," Strauss ordered, leaving no room for argument. "And if everyone else is a fake, be declared the real one in her place."

* * *

"Why are you going on leave?" Garcia grilled her in the small bullpen kitchenette, the height of disgruntled disapproval. "Why did I not _know_ you are going on leave? I know everything. Why didn't I know?"

"Technically, it's a forensic conference," Jane snorted. "Not _leave_. So you still know about all of my leaves."

"But you're still going to be _gone_," The Tech Analyst grumbled. "And why I no knowy?"

"Because Strauss only _just_ approved it," Jane dismissed offhandedly, aware of the profiling eyes on her from across the bullpen. "And I didn't even know that my request for time hadn't completely bounced. Forgot that I even put it in, anyway."

"Did Hotch know?" JJ asked, sidling up to them. "He looked thrown off when you told us."

"No, Hotch did not," Jane shrugged casually. "But that wasn't intentional."

"Okay …" JJ gave her an odd look. "You're not eloping to get married in Vegas or something, are you?"

"Aw man," The doctor deadpanned, face flat. "You found me out. Whatever shall I do?"

"Make us your bridesmaids," JJ shot back just as dryly.

Garcia bust a gut laughing, and the topic was pushed aside.

* * *

"I've volunteered this team for a rather unusual consultation."

It had been two weeks since Jane has left on leave, and the team still felt off balance from the lack of subtle mother henning they were receiving. Reid was the most affected, because the rest of the team realized around day three that he hadn't eaten properly since Jane left - meaning that he was probably going to be brutally bludgeoned with a broccoli head once the doctor returned and they all had to work to mitigate the damage in the meantime.

Strauss showing up to announce a consultation that hadn't gone through Hotch - very much hadn't, based off the Unit Chief's distinct lack of facial expression - was just icing on the disastrous, leaning-tower-like cake at this point.

All eyes are on Strauss and Hotch: a normal consult would not be given to them like this. Which meant that this was something big. 'NDAs and don't-even-talk-to-your-fellow-agents-about-this' big.

"The Colemyer Legacy case is being partially reopened," Hotch dropped like a bomb.

Immediately Reid sat up.

"This has to do with the _Colemyer Massacre_?" Morgan interrupted incredulously. "I thought that was a cold case. They gave up on that as a bad job - didn't have anyone to tie the deaths to."

"I'm immediately lost," Garcia interrupted him. "And based on the constipated look on JJ's face, she is too."

"The Colemyer _Murders_," Strauss emphasized. "More officially known as the Colemyer Legacy case, are the names given to the systematic murders of 57 men, women, and children all killed within a 72 hour period. All the victims had familial or marital ties to the Colemyer Estate. No perp was found so it got hushed up."

"The Colemyer Estate - that's that really rich clump of families that all intermarried and basically monopolized the car industry a while back," Garcia finally connected the dots. "Colemyer cars were _everywhere_ twenty years ago. I mean, I learned how to _drive_ in a Colemyer."

"So did I," Rossi deadpanned, and the room was subjected to Garcia waving a hand at the Italian man in a '_See? SEE?_' manor.

"Wait, I heard about this," JJ mused, a pen at her chin. "It was a big deal in the press because of the inheritance dispute. No one knew where the money and property would all go, so the accounts were frozen and the patents locked down."

"Which resulted in the Estate being worth billions and hundreds of thousands of people losing their jobs," Hotch confirmed. "But the case was never solved. The murders were all hired guns and whoever ordered the hit was never identified."

"Then why are we being consulted?" Emily asked, eyes furrowed. "This was a decade ago. Plus, you said 'partially'."

"Actually, these events occurred nearly 15 years ago almost to the day," Hotch corrected grimmly, opening a briefcase and handing a pile of files to the agent closest to him - Morgan - who began to pass them around. "And we're not being called in to solve the murders, which is why it is only partial."

"A stipulation for inheritance was put in place by the old family head," Strauss explained. "If there was ever a question of inheritance, all relevant accounts were to be frozen and companies stabilized. If a period of 3 years passed without a decisive heir - _a legally established heir_ \- coming forward, then all assets in question would be distributed to a number of charities and nonprofits that were specified. The companies and patents would be sold to the highest bidder."

"Now most of these disputes over the years were trivial - who got what house and what shares - but with the systematic murder of the entire pool of heirs, three years was not conclusive," Hotch continued. "Des Liber, the primary lawyer of former CEO Emmet Colemyer of Colemyer Consolidated, managed to get the entire Estate frozen for fifteen years rather than three. It is my understanding that she hoped that a living heir would step forward."

"Is there someone she believes to still be alive?" Emily asked with confusion, glancing around the table. "15 years is an awfully long time not to have someone in mind."

"There was only one body that was never found, wasn't there?" Rossi chipped in for Hotch. "I consulted on this case briefly before it was taken off my hands. We never found the estranged granddaughter."

"Yes," Strauss confirmed, crossing her arms loosely. "Marisole Ryden. She wasn't a direct heir, but she was still in the line. Her estranged mother, Elizabeth Colemyer, was the black sheep of the family, although she wasn't written out of the will completely. Elizabeth Colemyer was the last to be confirmed dead, her husband and children all before her - except for Marisole."

"So you think that she's the lost Princess Anistasia?" Garcia clarified. "You think that she's still alive, biding her time and tr ying not to get killed?"

"What exactly do you want us to do?" Reid spoke up for the first time, pushing aside the uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. Something about the photo of the Ryden family bothered him. "Do you want us to find her? She'd have 15 years to disappear."

"No," Struss shook her head. "Your unit is tasked with proving who really is Marisole Ryden."

"With all the recent media activity with the deadline coming up, the number of people claiming to be the Lost Heiress is immense." Hotch explained. "The preliminary tests conducted by the FBI have managed to narrow down the pool to 17 women, and we have been tasked to find which - if any of them - is the real Marisole. And we have to do it in the next five days."

* * *

**FIVE DAYS LEFT**

* * *

"Seventeen, please just back off."

Jane looked up to see Ten trying to get the other - very aggressive - Number to get off of the fabric of her long skirt from where it was bunched on the ground; easy to step on as Ten sat reading off to the side of the room.

"Why? Are you going to make me?" Seventeen growled at her. "You're pathetic, Ten - shouldn't even _be_ here."

The aura of the room - full of women all with name tags numbered 1 to 17 - was intense, and this little catfight was just the tip of the iceberg. For a week and a half the process to narrow down who - out of the pool of _hundreds_ \- actually could be the Lost Heiress was grueling. Everyone was miserable, and Seventeen - previously 239 - was not the first to lash out at her fellow Numbers. Just the loudest.

"You know I really hope you're not the real one, Seventeen." Jane felt herself calling over the murmurs in the room. "Because I really think it would suck if we were all vying to be someone who is such a _bitch_."

"At least Marisole Ryden was a _rich_ bitch," Seventeen laughed meanly. "And I need the cash. What's it to you?"

Well the chance of her being the real one just dropped severely.

"Did you seriously just admit to not being Marisole?" Jane deadpanned. "_Seriously_?"

"I did no such thing," Seventeen smiled. "I said I needed the cash. There's no cameras - I _checked_ \- and it's illegal to record someone without their knowledge in this state. So who're you going to cry your not-evidence to, _Four_?"

"You really are full of it," Jane mused, eyebrow cocking. If only she knew. "That's okay, we can't all be perfect like Teddy-Bear Ten - but keep in mind that even if you do make it through _all these tests_, you're not going to get even a _penny_."

She'd make _sure_ of it.

"Oh, you are just _asking_ for a fight," Seventeen growled, finally stepping off the bit of skirt she was holding hostage and stalking up to Jane.

"The agreements we all signed say that any physical altercations will result in expulsion from the tests," Jane deadpans. "Regardless of our 'validity.' Am I really worth it?"

"Nah, you ain't worth _shit_," Seventeen laughed wickedly, teeth bared. "But we all already knew that."

"Cute," Jane smirks, shouldering her aside to go sit by Ten. Seventeen stormed away furiously.

"Thank you," Ten smiled at her, tugging at a lock of her curly hair. "You didn't have to do that."

"Nah, I did," Jane corrected. "No one should have to put up with that noise."

"Still …" Ten trailed off. "Thanks."

They sat in companionable silence, both Ten and Jane turning back to their book and sketch pad respectively.

Jane liked Ten. She was quiet, but not mum. She was fun to talk to once she got out of her shell a bit, and she seemed very genuine in all of her actions and words. Probably why Seventeen targeted her so much. Ten really was a Teddy Bear.

Jane knew that she wasn't supposed to get attached to any of the Numbers - her judgment could be affected if she did - so she _didn't_ get attached. But if she _had_, then Jane thought that maybe she might've gotten attached to 146 - or, rather, Ten - the first time they met in the testing hall.

A part of Jane that she didn't let show hoped that Ten was Marisole. She seemed like she deserved it the most.

"Do you think it's true, what Nine said earlier?" Ten piped up after a while. "About them bringing in a childhood friend?"

"I think so," Jane nodded, going back over the curve of the line she was trying to get _just right_ with her pencil. "But that was always going to happen. We're all proving who _we_ are - a friend could prove who _Marisole_ is."

Ten nods, but the agent and profiler in Jane notes how nervous she seemed by the prospect of it.

* * *

The woman is tall and bony with rich dark skin and a neat pile of box braids. She seemed no nonsense, but mostly out of weariness. She also looked like she was close to committing homicide.

"My name is Des Liber," The woman introduced herself, adjusting her jacket - smoothing out the fabric in a stress induced tic. "I was asked to come here to provide more insight on the particulars of the … situation."

"Forgive me, Ms. Liber," Rossi cut in. "But what capacity are you here in?"

"I am one of the primary lawyers of the Colemyer estate, _Agent_ Rossi," She answered waspishly. "And I'll thank you not to look down on me because I am no Supervisory Special Agent, _sir_."

"Agent Rossi means no offense, Ms. Liber," Hotch tried to salvage the situation, thrown by her aggressive response.

"You were the one who pushed for the period of stagnation to be increased," JJ remembered, twisting a pen in her hands.

"Indeed I was," Liber nodded, calming slightly. "There was a chance that the company could be saved. I had hoped that 15 years was enough time."

"Why did you?" Morgan asked. "15 years is a long time to wait."

"Because, Agent, although the freezing of the Colemyer companies and patents has resulted in the loss of thousands of jobs, the dissolving of them would result in the loss of millions," Liber broke down grimmly. "Colemyer may be an automobile company in name, but we are also in electronics productions and clothing lines, charity foundations and nonprofits. We have our fingers in all the pies across the world, and even though no new products _should_ be allowed to be created, so long as the company neither makes nor loses money in a gross capacity new products are allowed to be developed."

"Colemyer is close to the front of innovation and R&D," Reid confirmed for the room. "They can't make money, so they find more cost effective ways to sell new products. They adapted. And expanded."

"Precisely," Liber nodded. "Despite the legal constraints, Colemyer has grown. If we were to be dissolved, the number of people who would benefit from the funds redistributed as charity would be drowned out by the sheer number of people who would lose jobs and livelihood and money. They economy could _collapse_ \- I knew that 15 years ago and I know that now. I couldn't, _can't_, allow that."

"Just to be clear," Rossi cut in. "We are not going to blur the lines so that you find _an_ heir. Unfortunate circumstances or no, if none of those women are Marisole Ryden then we won't fabricate results to suit you."

"Of course," Liber nodded grimmly. "I understand."

"Shall we get started then?" Hotch cut through the tension. "Reid, explain to Ms. Liber what we were working on."

The room shifted. Focus sharpened.

"We have three lists," Reid gestured at the board as he spun a marker in hand. "The real Marisole Ryden would have a couple indisputable characteristics that would not be changed by time. Similarly, she would have a number of characteristics that _most likely_ wouldn't change - though with trauma anything is possible and therefore a candidate could not be eliminated on failing to meet one of these alone."

"And then we have a third category," Morgan piped up, pulling them back on track. "We have a list of characteristics that we know that Ryden _couldn't_ have - or at the very least is very unlikely to. These are the ones that will help us eliminate the most."

"Like what?" Liber bristled. "We've already narrowed the pool down to only 17 women out of _hundreds_."

"Those tests were based off knowledge and obvious physical impossibilities - dummy tests, if you will," Emily explained quickly. "Because we are looking at a smaller pool, we're able to narrow the numbers down even further."

"We can exclude anyone with separate identities that can be tied back to before 15 years ago," Hotch began, watching as Reid took up the role of scribe. "The initial search already took that into consideration, but our Technical Analyst will be able to look more effectively."

"Eliminate anyone under 5'2", Marisole's final recorded height," JJ added. "Along with anyone with birth defects, birthmarks, or similar identifying qualities. Medically, Marisole doesn't stand out."

"Anyone appearing physically younger than 25 or older than 35," Morgan tossed in.

"I assume you've already matched eye color to the best of your ability?" Rossi asked, and waited until Liber nodded to continue. "Other than that, her physical characteristics could've changed too much with time to tell."

"Intelligence," Reid offered from the board. "Marisole never took an IQ test, but she was extremely intelligent. She scored high on standardized testing during her years of schooling; that is unlikely to change _now_."

"Garcia, anything to add?"

The Technical Analyst had been staring at something on her screen, and had to blink herself back to the present.

"Umm - little things," Garcia finally found the words, tearing her eyes away from a picture of the Ryden family. "I can see if I can dig up the little things. Right handed, left handed. Number of teeth. Interesting scars. See what I can find."

"But what about the 'maybe' category?" JJ asked. "We still have that empty."

"The maybes are mostly going to be psychological and based off personality," Rossi shook his head, stroking his beard. "Ryden was a chipper, outgoing young woman, but after so many years of potentially untreated trauma we don't know who she is now."

"So we can't go based off personality tests, because her personality could have changed," Liber summarizes.

"Most likely has, in fact," Spencer capped his marker. "The likelihood of anyone going through extensive trauma and loss without some sort of discernible shift in personality is exceedingly rare, made even more so by the severity of what Marisole has gone through at this point."

"Marisole had to live through the systematic murder of everyone she had any familial connections to," Emily laid out grimmly. "If that's not trauma and loss, I don't know what is."

* * *

**FOUR DAYS LEFT**

* * *

"Where are we?" Ten murmured to Jane as they were glancing around the _incredibly familiar building_ they were being led into by a number of stone faced agents in suits. "We're not in Massachusetts anymore, are we?"

"Didn't you see the sign on the way in?" Nine asked rhetorically, nodding her head towards where they had just come from. "We're in Quantico, Virginia."

"As in the _FBI_?" Six's eyes widened. "We're going to be interrogated by the _FBI_?"

"They're not going to _torture_ us," Jane rolled her eyes. "Listen, it's probably just because so much money is involved. High security for a high profile case."

"Yeah, what Four said," One nodded. "Plus this is a murder trial too, in a way."

"Oh yeah, that makes me feel better," Ten muttered caustically, and Jane had to hold back a smile.

* * *

"Okay, here's what I've got," Garcia started once the team had reconvened in the round table room. "Two, Three, Eleven, and Sixteen all have confirmed identities outside of being 'Marisole.' Five and Fifteen have some pretty major birthmarks going on, and according to security Fourteen's roots are being to show through her hair dye - bit of a shoddy job there. Shoulda stayed blonde."

"Add that to our elimination of Eight and Twelve through height and we've narrowed the pool down to eight Numbers." Hotch nods, looking at the list on the board. "Garcia, have the Numbers all arrived to Quantico?"

"Yes, sir," Garcia confirmed, typing one handedly at her laptop. "Or, rather, that's what they told me. I still don't understand why none of you profilers are down there … profiling."

"Rules, Baby Girl," Morgan told her. "We need to follow protocol. We've got a lot of eyes on us, and we need to narrow down the pool even further before the brass will let us even set eyes on these women."

"In four days," Emily grumbled.

"Rossi, go tell Liber that we've cut the pool down by half," Hotch ordered. "Garcia, tell security to let the eliminated go. Reid, Prentiss, figure out how you want the intelligence tests administered."

"What about you, me, and JJ?" Morgan chimed in. "To continue to go over the data?"

"No, we're going to the airport." Hotch gathered his bag. "Garcia found someone who can tell us more about Marisole herself."

* * *

"So how did all the Colemyers die anyway?" Garcia asked JJ, sitting back in her extra-comfy chair as she adjusted her earpiece. "I've been so focused on narrowing down the pool for Marisole that I didn't really have the time to go over the deaths themselves."

"_November, 15 years ago, a series of execution style deaths started coming through as connected_," JJ started to explain. "_Double taps - a gunshot to the head and chest. These hits came hard and fast, and eventually 72 hours had passed and everyone that was a Colemyer or held inheritance to the Colemyer money was dead._"

"Except for little Marisole," Garcia pointed out, pulling up a picture of the smiling teenager. A familiar looking teenager, at that - she probably had seen this on the news at some point.

"_Marisole Ryden and Elizabeth Colemyer were left standing the longest, yes._" JJ confirmed.

"Elizabeth … you mean Marisole's mother?" Garcia pulled up the middle aged woman's photo. "They look a lot alike. She was the last to die?"

"_Assuming that Marisole is alive_," JJ cleared her throat. "_Marisole's parents were divorced, weren't they?_"

"Yes," Garcia tapped at her keyboard singlehandedly as she munched at some yogurt. "Well - in a way. Arthur Ryden and Elizabeth Colemyer were never married, though they had plenty of children together. Looks like the start of their relationship crumbling was when one of their children was stillborn, and they eventually separated after Gabriel - their youngest - was born. Marisole probably barely knew her mother."

"_Yet her familial tie through her mom is why she died,_" JJ sighed. "_Seems unfair._"

"Sugar, nothing about this is _fair_." Garcia sighed, closing the photo she had up of the smiling Ryden family - a father and four kids: two boys and two girls, all happy and healthy and whole. "Let's just hope we find this girl. How's it going with your end … thing, task, whatever."

"_We're going to the airport to pick up a man who, back in the day, was Marisole's boyfriend,_" JJ told her, anticipation in her tone. "_We're hoping that since he volunteered to narrow down the pool, he'll be able to identify Marisole directly._"

"Well, good luck with that," Garcia sighed. "I should go check up on the others."

"_Reid still not eating consistently?_" JJ half-laughed. "_Man, the sooner Jane comes back from that conference the better._"

"I know right?" Garcia groaned. "I swear I never realized he was this bad at taking care of himself. Plus, her medical know-how could probably narrow down this pool almost completely."

"_Makes you wonder why we haven't just recalled her,_" JJ pondered. "_Wouldn't be the first time one of us got called in during leave._"

"She's not a profiler," Garcia pointed out, shrugging. "But anyway - Reid! Food! Liquids that aren't coffee!"

"_Bye, Pen,_" JJ laughed, and the blonde hung up.

* * *

"Rhys Olivier?" Hotch asked the man who approached them in the airport, extending his hand for a shake. "SSA Aaron Hotchner. These are my colleagues, SSAs Derek Morgan and Jennifer Jereau. Thank you for making the trip here."

Rhys Olivier was a man in his late twenties, thin and tall with short dark hair. He had a boyish quality to him, and JJ figured that if the circumstances were different he would have a wide smile as he accepted Hotch's hand. As it was, he looked weary and as if he wanted to be anywhere else right now.

"Yeah, well anything to get out of the cold," The man smiled wryly. He raised a hand to run through his curls. "Michigan gets like that."

"Shall we get back to Quantico?" JJ suggested, offering Olivier a smile. "We can get you settled before we walk you through what we'd like you to do."

Olivier shook his head even as he was finishing speaking, shouldering his duffel bag. "No, let's just get it over with." He followed behind the agents. "I'd rather we just get right into it."

They were silent until they got to the car, and as they loaded into the SUV Morgan began to break down the situation for him.

"What we want isn't for you to make the final decision," Morgan clarified right off. "You may know Marisole the best, but we can't expect you to make that kind of call - and it wouldn't be accepted officially anyway. Think of this as a consult. We have eight women all saying they're Marisole, so all you have to do is talk to them. See them. See if anything looks or feels off."

"Just talk?" Olivier shifted, uncomfortable.

"Just talk," Hotch assured him. "If you come up with nothing, that's okay. If you do, it's appreciated."

"In the meantime, do you want to talk?" JJ offered. "Do you have any worries? Anything you want us to know about Marisole?"

"Don't call her that," Olivier said suddenly, fiercely, before deflating just as abruptly. "Sorry - it's just …"

"Yes?" JJ prompted gently.

"She hated that name," Olivier admitted. "She hated her mom after she left, and it was the name her mom gave her. We always called her Mari. Or Ivy."

"Ivy?" Morgan asked. "Why Ivy?"

"I dunno, never asked." Olivier admitted, frustrated. "Or maybe I did but I forgot. I try not to think about them. But that's what Arthur - her dad - called her. Family nickname, you know."

"This all helps, a lot," JJ assured him.

* * *

"This is far as I can go," said Agent Hotchner - who was intimidating as hell - to Rhys. "In order to remain unbiased, the team will not be interacting directly with any of the Numbers until we're in the final stages. Are you comfortable going from here?"

"Yes …" Rhys told him, still not feeling sure. "How long do I have to …"

"Only as long as you are willing," Hotchner told-ordered-allowed him, and the quiet assurance was almost comfortable. Like it was a foregone conclusion that he wouldn't be in there longer than he had to. "Knock three times on the door when you want to be let out."

Rhys nodded in thanks, and pushed into the hall.


	19. 19

"So … Number Four?"

Jane looked up from her book. She had heard Olivier come in, of course. Kept an eye out on how all the numbers reacted - it _was_ why she was here. But she hadn't bothered to flock him like some of the Numbers had. She wasn't Marisole, and he didn't deserve to have yet another woman vying for his attention, trying to convince him she was.

"Yup," Jane popped her 'p', sticking a finger in the spine of her book to save her place. "Still getting used to that one. Being known as a number is vaguely prisonlike. Or ... maybe more like an experiment."

Time with the team has made her chatty, who knew?

(Aaron. Aaron probably knew.)

The skinny man sat down across from her, a slight smile on his face. "Well you are all having tests run on you."

"Lab experiment it is," She nodded faux sagely, feeling her lips twitch. "You are wise, grasshopper."

Olivier laughed, strained and stressed, but he laughed. Part of Jane relaxed at that.

"So is this the part I give you my unending insistence that it is truly me and only me who is the real Frog Prince?" Jane questions dryly. "Or can we skip that part? I've been surrounded by jealous harpies for weeks and I really would just like a civil conversation."

"Okay, sure," Olivier agreed readily, just as dryly. "I'm Rhys Olivier, and I'm here to see which of you women is my dead ex-girlfriend."

"Okay, sure," Jane echoed with a sardonic tilt to her lips. "I'm Number Four, and I'm here to steal away the fortune of a dead dynasty. And I'm sorry for my fellow Numbers - that ring on your finger says that the 'ex' part really is final."

Olivier looks down at his left hand, smiling fondly at the memories tied to the band shining there.

"What's their name?" She asks him, nodding at his finger.

"Kyle," He smiled fondly,distantly, twisting it with his thumb.

"I'm happy for you," Jane is suddenly saying, even if she doesn't know why she really, honestly means it. "You deserve someone who makes you happy."

He just smiles at her, a twitch of the lips.

"So, what's your favorite color?" She changes topics abruptly, not liking the melancholy on his face.

Rhys blinks, then exaggeratedly pretends to think on it. "Gold."

"Huh," Jane cocks her head. "Why gold?"

"Because it always shines."

"'Cept when it tarnishes," She snarks, flashing a grin of teeth.

"Fine, be that way," Rhys huffed, though Jane can tell that he's actually amused. "And what is your favorite color?"

"Silver," Jane answers smoothly.

"Oh? Woulda thought black with all the goth-punk going on there."

"Nah," Jane shook her head. "Black is a base coat. I really like silver."

"What, like the metal?" Rhys asked, but there's something more to his voice.

"No …" Jane thought, pulling at the edge of her glove absentmindedly - in her distraction not catching the way he watched her movement sharply. "Well, yes. Maybe. I think that I like silver jewelry. It's …" She trailed off.

"You think?" Olivier echoed.

Jane sighed, cursing her slip up. Best just go with the truth … if only a version of it. "Mr. Olivier, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but everyone here has a justification of why they are the perfect Marisole. The _real_ one. I don't. I have a reason that I _could_ be Marisole."

"How do you mean?" Rhys pressed, leaning forward in the seat he had taken. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I am an amnesiac, Mr. Olivier, and you should know that," Jane told him bluntly. God Strauss owed her. She placed her book - which she had been gripping in her hands tightly - too tightly - on the floor beside her chair. "I hope that you find your friend, I really do. But I can't be the one to promise that I'm her."

Rhys studied her, eyes on her face trailing down to her hands, the way she was curled up in the armchair, the boots on her feet. He nodded, just once, but there was something in his eyes that wasn't there when he sat down.

"Okay ... _Four_," Rhys said as a farewell. "Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment."

And he got up and walked away.

* * *

Olivier scanned the whiteboard and the piles of paper around the room. "You guys are really going all out, aren't you?"

"It is very important to us that if Mari is still alive, we can pick her out of the crowd and give her the help that she needs," Rossi told him seriously, gently.

"First time anyone in power has talked about Mari like she needs help," Olivier laughed humorlessly, tiredly. "Thank you."

"Of course," Emily smiled slightly, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Now, it is our understanding that you've been talking to the pool of candidates."

"Since you've talked to them, we've narrowed down our pool even further," JJ informed him gently. "But before we tell you any details, we would like your unbiased report. Do any of the women stand out as being clearly … _off_."

"A lot, sure." Olivier nodded. "Maybe Thirteen? Definitely Seven. But ... not really enough to eliminate them off of - not completely. Mari changed at the drop of a hat, sometimes. She used to joke that she was as constant as the wind: always there but always different."

"She sounds like a wonderful woman," JJ assured him. "What about those who stand out in the right kind of ways? Numbers that said the right thing, acted the right way. People like that."

"There's …" Olivier trailed off, looking conflicted. "There's one. Well, Seventeen and Ten both seem _close_, but Number Four is the closest. She … she didn't mob me, when I came in. Some of the Numbers came right up to me and started pushing how much _they_ were Mari. It … didn't feel right."

"But she didn't," Rossi picked apart carefully. "She waited."

"She sat in the back, with a book on her lap," Olivier described the scene. "Didn't look at me - wasn't even paying attention, really. When I came over to talk to her, she make sarcastic comments and then asked what my favorite color was."

"Made you feel relaxed, like you weren't even interviewing her," Hotch finished his thought.

Olivier nodded. "She … her tone matched so much. Maybe a little dryer, but it was her."

"What else did she say to you?" Hotch pressed. "Something made you remember her over all the others. Over Ten and Seventeen."

"She said that I should know that she was an amnesiac," Olivier admitted. "That the room was full of people that could promise they were the real Mari, but she couldn't. And …"

He trailed off, looking down at his hand, "When Mari … when everything happened Mari and I were on the outs. We didn't talk about it, but neither of us were really feeling it anymore. I always hoped that if Mar - if she had died, that she would've been happy for me. I left a place for her at my wedding."

He took in a shuddering breath, fingers curling into tense fists.

"When Four saw my ring, she asked for Kyle's name." Rhys looked up at them then, and a small, pained smile was gracing his lips, "When she said that she was happy for me … it was what I always wanted to hear from her. We were best friends and … it was like having a little bit of my back, is all."

* * *

"This Number Four..." Rossi trailed off once Rhys had left.

"She's either Mari herself, or she's an incredibly good and manipulative plant," Morgan finished for him, eyes on the boards. "If you look at her data results, Four's scores are slightly higher than the majority of the Numbers. And she matched very closely on things like dialect and handwriting."

"Allowing for slight variation," Reid chipped in.

"The phrase 'allowing for slight variation' is going to be our new slogan by the end of this case." Emily shook her head, a smile twitching at her lips.

"We can narrow down the pool to only four of the numbers at this point," Hotch decided. "Send everyone but Ten, Seventeen, Nine, and Four packing. We should move on to individual interviews."

"What exactly are we looking for?" JJ asked.

"We've done all we can so far," Rossi shook his head, a grim expression on his face. "Without resorting to tactics that would exacerbate undue trauma."

"You're saying -" JJ cut herself off and started over. "You are going to poke at them until they lash out."

"It is very hard to fake real grief," Emily told her quietly. "If we push these women hard enough, if and when their grief does show we will know that it's genuine."

* * *

**THREE DAYS LEFT**

* * *

"Alright Number - _Jane_?"

Jane looked up from where she had been picking at her nails, feeling bored and vulnerable in the quiet room she had been moved to. _Morgan_.

"LeFay, what the hell?" Jane asked incredulously. "What are you _doing _here?"

"What am _I_ doing here?" Morgan repeated back in the same tone. "What are _you -_"

He cut himself off abruptly, eyes locked on the number clipped to her chest with a sort of realizing horror that she couldn't place.

"Morgan, Strauss asked me to be a mole for a consult," Jane whispered furiously. "You can't _be _here. I need to hold my cover until I get eliminated naturally."

"Strauss put you up to this," Morgan pried, closing the door as he finally stepped further into the room. "Does _Hotch _know?"

"_No_, and if you're working this case it needs to _stay_ that way," Jane shook her head. "Part of why I'm here is also to determine the validity of the test. I walk in with all the info on Marisole Ryden, and if I can beat it then Ryden is dead."

"I -" Morgan inhaled sharply. "Okay, I need to talk to Hotch about this."

"Derek, _wait_!"

"Hotch, get the team." Morgan grabbed him, face deadly serious. "Hotch - _grab the team_."

"What is it, Morgan?" Emily asks as they all gather in the round table room. "I thought you -"

"Number Four is Jane."

His statement dropped like an atom bomb. Bewildering and devastating to everyone and everything in its radius.

"Jane is at a _conference_ -" Hotch begins, reacting with anger and denial at Morgan's announcement.

"Nah, man, Strauss put her up to this," Morgan shook his head, just as frazzled. "To test our test. She walks in with all the info trying to get to the final round, acting as a mole. If she makes it to the end then we know that the trials a bust and that Mari is dead."

"But - she couldn't have passed all of these tests," Dave protested, arm waving wildly at the board behind him. "Sure, some of them were just to weed out the imbeciles - you can find Ryden's family tree online easily, plus plenty of things in her childhood. But the most of these?"

"We scrapped all the results that were of tests not conducted by us. We couldn't guarantee their validity - but when we conducted those again she _passed_ them." Reid began to pace. "The dialect and terminology she uses, the intelligence tests, the 'little things' - what's the chance that Jane could have made it through all those with flying colors if she only had a file to work with?"

"Very, very slim," Hotch sounded exceedingly - _exceedingly_, 10-dead-bodies-and-more-on-the-way _exceedingly _\- grim. "Garcia? I need you to take Reid and the Black Book and find out who Jane really is."

"Sir?" Garcia asked, startled. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am." Hotch shook his head. "If Jane is Mari, then she's in a lot more danger than we realized. We need to know in order to protect her. Go."

Reid grabbed the notebook from Hotch's bag, following the Technical Analyst out the door to her office.

"Everyone else, interview the other candidates as planned; we need to still go through this process the right way. We can't afford to do this wrong."

"And Jane?" JJ asks, hand clutching at her sister's necklace. "Do we interview her too?"

"No, not yet," Rossi decided. "We let her sit, find what we can."

"Dave's right," Hotch agreed. "If we let her know that we think she actually may be Mari, her reaction may be negative."

* * *

"Okay, Boy Wonder, we're doing this," Garcia steeled herself. "Tell me what we got."

"Females reported dead or missing anywhere from 10 to 30 years ago," Reid began. "We don't know how old she was when she got those scars, but we do know that she can't have been reported outside of that time frame, allowing for variability."

"There's that phrase again …" Garcia trailed off. "That's a long list. Like, disturbingly long."

"Eliminate anyone who was found, dead or alive," Reid continued. "Shorter?"

"Not by much. What's next?"

"Eliminate anyone who is not caucasian, hispanic, middle eastern, or black," Reid began to flip through the notebook. "Jane's heritage is hard to place, but those are the most likely."

"Keep going," Garcia nodded, fingers flying across her keys.

"Eliminate blondes, those with brown eyes, and anyone with major birth or physical defects," Spencer began to pace. "No one with disabilities, such as blindness or deafness, or injuries such as paralysis or amputations."

"Next."

"Eliminate anyone who is an only child," Reid skimmed through the notebook. "Only those with younger brothers."

"The list is down to 273 names," Garcia tells him. "Marisole Ryden is on this list."

"Okay," Ried sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, eliminate anyone below the Mason-Dixon line or on either coast. Jane's dialect is more central."

"198."

"Look for some kind of tie to Vermont," Ried leaned over her shoulder to look at the screens. "Jane once mentioned the woods there."

"Still pretty vague, Junior G-Man," Penelope shook her head. "But … oh."

"What, what is it?"

"Looks like the Ryden family spent their summers in Vermont every year," Garcia swallowed. "They went mountain climbing."

"Garcia, we need to focus," Reid brought her back on topic. "Anyone whose brother died."

"10," Garcia swallowed.

"Any that were named 'Bree' or started with the letter 'b'?"

"None," Garcia went back to the previous list. "What do we do with this?"

"We take it to Hotch," Spencer squeezed her shoulder. "And then he decides."

* * *

"Yes, Aaron?" Strauss put down her pen when he stormed into her office. "What is it you need?"

"You took a member of my team and put them undercover in an exam you _had me run_?" Aaron demanded, furious. "What were you _thinking_?"

"Dr. Hart has been eliminated, then?" Strauss asked rhetorically, standing. "Frankly I'm impressed she made it this far. She's a very versatile woman, your doctor."

"Jane hasn't been eliminated yet," Hotch almost-growled. "She sat waiting in an interrogation room while Agent Morgan walked in to _interview her_."

"Why, Agent Hotchner," Strauss frowned. "I'm rather shocked at the quality of your testing. I would have thought that your process would've been more thorough than that."

"That's just it, Erin," Hotch frowned even further, shoulders tense. "Our elimination process has been _intense_. How much were you helping her through it?"

"Not at all, after the preliminary sealing of her specific personal information and giving her the information we had on Ryden." Now Strauss was frowning, noticing his anxiety. "Agent Hotchner, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that Dr. Jane Hart was once Jane Doe, an unidentified amnesiac who changed her name after she got her medical degree," Hotch stared her down. "And now Dr. Jane Hart is passing every test we've set up to identify Marisole Ryden with flying colors."

"I -" Strauss was shocked. "This was not in her file."

"Technically, it didn't have to be," Hotch collapsed into the chair across from Strauss as the Section Chief herself sat down. "This is going to be a problem."

"That is putting it lightly," Strauss cradled her face in her hands. "Have you determined that Dr. Hart is Ryden?"

"No," Hotch shook his head. "But we've got Garcia on it now. You really didn't know that she was an amnesiac?"

"No, she never told me," Strauss sat back. "And you never did either. We'll be discussing this later."

"Gideon told me he had taken care of it. Apparently, he hadn't." Aaron gritted his teeth, cursing his absent colleague yet again. "What do we do? If we find that Jane really is Marisole, then she would have the spotlight shone on her. She would never be able to work with our team again. She would be too high profile."

"That should not be our focus right now," Strauss scolded him. "Finish your job. Find the identity of Dr. Hart while you're at it. We'll keep everything confidential until we have something more definite to work with than 'maybe'."

* * *

"Dave, Nine is clearly a con artist and Seventeen is just here for the money," Emily spoke lowly to the older profiler. "We have enough to send them home. Ten is so far into her shell we can't tell if it's trauma or shyness or nerves. Everything points towards Jane."

"We let them stew," The Italian ex-marine decided. "We don't send anyone else home yet. What did Reid and Garcia find?"

"A list of ten names," Morgan joined their conversation. "Hotch asked us to meet in the round table room to look them over."

They all walked in anticipatory silence.

* * *

"Good, we're all here," JJ grimaced when the team was all met. "So we have ten names. Gracia Hernandez, Monica Justin, Arezu Ghani, Hasanah Guler, Kylie Turner, Elizabeth Finch, Marcy Lucas, Julia Smith, Aslin Marks, and Marisole Ryden."

"That's still plenty of names," Morgan crossed his arms. "Baby Girl, can you pull up pictures of each of these women when they were last seen?"

"Sure thing, Sugar Lips," Garcia complies with less than her usual enthusiasm and cheer. The names were then matched with a variety of photos, ranging from candid photos to driver's licenses, along with ages and dates of disappearance.

"Go ahead and remove Lucas and Hernandez from the list," Hotch spoke up after they all took a moment to study. "They're too old to be Jane."

"Likewise, Monica Justin - who was just a toddler when she was abducted - would be too young," Reid. "Most likely Kylie Turner, too."

"Any of these women could be Jane," JJ's eyes rake over the remaining - very similar - women. "After fifteen years these photos might be completely useless."

"Do any of them have fingerprints on file?" Emily asked. "We have Jane's, but she's not in any database other than ours."

"Say goodbye to Turner, Guler, and Smith," Garcia types away, the photos disappearing with the others.

"Five," JJ looked over the photos carefully. "Do they have younger siblings?"

"Arezu Ghani had a little brother named Asaiah," Garcia pulled up photos as she spoke. "Elizabeth Finch dead Jacob and a still-living Micheal, Aslin Marks a missing Hernan and now-grown sister Amara, and Mari's whole family."

"I …" Reid trailed off, frowning.

"What is it?" Morgan asked, recognizing his 'thinking face'.

"I'm just -" Reid cut himself off again, picking up a file in front of him. "Just - look at this. The Ryden children were named Adaline, Casey, Marisole, and the youngest - Gabriel."

"And?" Emily asked.

"Well, it's not common but - well, Ga-_bri-_el. _Bri_." Spencer rushed out. "And that's what Jane called Morgan in the hospital in New York."

"Omigod." Garcia suddenly gasped, rushing to her computer. "_Nicknames_."

"What is it Baby Girl?"

"The tattoo," Garcia stumbled over her words, pulling up a photo of their doctor's back. "The one you saw in Detroit."

"What?" JJ asked, confused. "What about it."

"JJ, you said that _Olivier _said that Jane had a nickname in her family, right?" Garcia putting the tattoo photo up on the screen. "He said that her family called her 'Ivy'."

"You're saying that -" Reid was bowled over, catching on before the others. "But -"

"It's not Ivy as in the plant," Emily caught up. "It's 'Ivy' as in the roman numerals _IV_. Like on her neck."

"Four?" Hotch stepped closer to examine the photo more carefully. "What is the significance of that? Four children?"  
"But Marisole was the third, not the fourth - Gabriel was." Rossi countered.

"But Casey had a twin sister," Garcia remembered suddenly. "A stillborn number three. If you count her -"

"Then Mari was number four," Morgan completed the thought. "Why would she count a dead sister?"

"Mari didn't use the name Marisole because it was the name her mother gave her," JJ recalled Olivier say. "The relationship between Arthur and Elizabeth began to fall apart after the stillbirth. If Arthur resented that -"

"Then he would've called his next child 'Four' to spite Elizabeth," Rossi nodded.

"Lotus," Reid looked like someone had punched him. "_Lotus_."

"What?" Rossi asked, fighting through the whiplash.

"The flower, in the middle of Jane's tattoo," Reid flipped through the files on the table. "It's a _lotus_."

"So, what?" Morgan drew his eyebrows together.

"So Mari's full name is Marisole Lotus Ryden," Reid informed them grimmly, passing the file in his hands to JJ.

Silence reigns.

"What now?" Garcia hesitantly asks.


	20. 20

"Jane, I need you to tell me everything you can about your past."

Jane could hardly believe what she was hearing.

"What the hell, Dave?" She scoffed. "Nearly seven years here at the Bureau and none of you have ever pushed for that. I _told you_ -"

"You've told us almost nothing," He cut her off swiftly. "We know almost nothing about you, Jane."

"So?" Jane rolled her eyes. "_Seven years_, Dave. And you start distrusting me _now_? What, Hotch's got his knickers in a twist because Strauss went behind his back? _I_ was the one who said yes."

"Jane," Emily spoke up softly, drawing her attention round to where the brunette had sat while Rossi practically trembled with energy. "_Please_."

"What is this about?" She repeated for what she felt was the millionth time. "Just because you're investigating -"

Jane felt as if she had been slapped.

Then she couldn't stop herself from laughing.

"You think I'm _Marisole Ryden_?" She choked out through her snickers. "That's absurd. Marisole is dead."

"Is she? We never found her body," Emily reasoned, the level headed one in an off kilter role reversal. "And you have passed each and every one of our tests with flying colors. Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I'm _not_," Jane denied again.

"_Why_?" Emily pressed, firm but tone gentle.

"I'm too old," Jane spat out the first thing to come to mind. "Marisole wouldn't even be 30. I'm 35, I'm too old."

"Your age estimate was made when you were first found," Emily reasoned again. "Around that age estimates can go wide, especially when someone is aged by trauma. The doctors, especially under experienced ones, could've easily undershot your age."

"Oh, so I broke Reid's record then!" Jane brushed off with a laugh. "Marisole Ryden would've been, what? Twenty-two when I joined the BAU?"

"You aren't even considering this as a possibility," Rossi finally stepped in again. "Why won't you take this seriously?"

"What is there to take seriously?" Jane growled at his tone, angry and judgmental enough for her to bristle. "_I'm not Marisole Ryden_?"

"_Why_?" Emily pushed again. "Give us evidence that you're not Marisole Ryden and we'll believe you. We'll put this all behind us and report to Strauss. Just _tell us_."

Jane was at a loss. She floundered.

"Jane," Dave deflated, losing his edge. "Please, we're worried about you. If you're Mari then -"

Jane flinched. She didn't even know why -

It just _hurt_. Having Dave say that name.

Of course, the profilers noticed, quieting.

"Jane?" Dave tried again, repeating himself slowly. "If you're Mari -"

_Again_.

"Jane, is there something wrong with what Rossi is saying?" Emily asks her softly, leaning forward as if to comfort a scared child.

Her head hurt.

"Jane, when Rossi said 'Mari' -"

Emily pauses, waiting for a reaction that never comes.

"When he said 'Mari' you flinched, do you know why?" Emily prys gently, eyes hyper focused on her.

"I didn't," Jane denied fruitlessly. "Please, can you just eliminate me so I can go home and sleep?"

"We can't yet," Rossi brushed aside her request. "Listen, Marisole Ryden is a target. If you are indeed Mari then -"

_Flinch_.

A pause. Jane barely dared breathe.

"I think we should check on the progress of the rest of the team," Emily told Rossi abruptly. "Jane, we'll be back soon."  
"Bye, then," She huffed, cradling her throbbing head.

* * *

"Something about _you_ saying 'Mari', not me, set her off," Emily whispered to the older profiler as they made their way to the bullpen. "She only flinched when you said it."  
"And she realized it too," Rossi nodded grimmly. "She just doesn't want to accept it. She's in complete denial."

"She's spent fifteen years as someone else," Emilly reasoned, glancing over her shoulder to the room that Jane was in. "She's a doctor. She isn't going to believe or accept anything we say unless she has irrefutable proof."

They arrived in the bullpen and summarized their findings to a worried and thoughtful team.

"So we just need her to remember," Morgan crossed his arms with a frown. "Oh, simple. We can all go home now, then."

"How can we even _do _that?" Garcia asked, eyes darting around the room. "If three weeks pretending to be … well, _herself_, hasn't triggered something. What will?"

"Rhys Olivier, maybe?" JJ offered.

"No, I think that that would be counterproductive," Reid shook his head. "She already has categorized Olivier as someone 'Marisole' would know. We should focus on someone that is close to Mari that Jane wouldn't know about through the file."

"You said that Jane flinched when Dave said 'Mari,'" Hotch speaks up for the first time, arms crossed and fingers curled. "But only when Dave did."

"I said it just as much as he did and nothing," Emily confirmed, shuffling her papers. "It wasn't just the name - it was that _Dave_ said it."

"What if it isn't that _Dave_ said it?" Hotch asked, mind whirling. "What if it was because someone _like_ Dave said it."

"The last time that Jane would've seen Olivier was when he was sixteen," Reid realized what their Unit Chief was getting at. "He would've elicited little to no reaction because he was so different. Someone already old - someone similar to Rossi - would've struck a chord with the name 'Mari'."

"Hey, watch the jabs at my age," Rossi tried to alleviate the tension, even as his quip fell flat.

"So who in Jane's life was around Rossi's age?" Hotch plowed on, and Garcia was already going away at her laptop."

"Arthur Ryden had a sister twelve years older than him," Garcia discovered triumphantly.

"_Man_, not woman, Baby Girl," Morgan dismissed.

"No, Priscilla Ryden is dead - has been for thirty years," Garcia grinned in victory. "And although she was never married, she was in a long term relationship with one Robert Leon, who lived not even five miles from where the Ryden family did."

Garcia pulled up a photo of a elder man, skin tanned by sun and hair a black and salted pile very similar to Rossi's own.

"Is he still alive?" Hotch asked urgently.

"Yes, he is." Garcia confirmed. "Robert had no legal ties to the Colemyer family, so he's alive and well, retired and playing copious amounts of golf down in Florida."

The team took a second to absorb that.

"JJ, contact him and bring him in," Hotch ordered. "I'm going to go talk to Jane."

* * *

"Mari, hey," Hotch greeted her as he entered the room. "Would you rather be moved to the room you've been staying in? It doesn't make sense for you to stay in the interrogation room all night."

She took a moment to blink. Something … she thought that something was wrong with his greeting. It was … she didn't even know, but she was bored and tired and kinda just wanted to lie down for a bit.

"Whatever," The doctor shook her head. "I just want to _work_. I've been bored this whole week."

"Not the previous ones, Mari?" Hotch studied her intently despite his light tone, watching as she picked up her jacket from where she'd flung it earlier.

"Nah, they were at least full of new people the whole time," She shrugged, following her friend out of the room. "This past one was just full of Numbers."

"I thought you would've immediately started complaining about Rossi and Emily," Aaron broke the silence after they were walking for a bit. "After all, Mari, they did accuse you of being Marisole Ryden."

"Who I'm _not_," She shook her head, pulling a face. "And I don't like how they were pushing that."

"And you really think there's no chance, Mari?" Hotch asked mildly, but there was an off tone in his voice. She couldn't figure it out, but she shot him a look all the same.

She pulled off one of her gloves, pushing up her sleeve to expose the worst of her cuts and scars. They stood out starkly in the artificial light of the hallway.

"Marisole Ryden never went through this," She tugged her sleeve back down after she was sure Hotch had gotten an eyeful. "_I_ did."

"And who exactly are you?" Hotch pressed as they reached her door, stopping in the hall. "Who _are_ you, Mari?"

"I'm -" She blinked, her brain tripping on her answer. "I don't even know."

Her head hurt. It hurt a _lot_.

"What's your name?" Hotch asked her, voice low and almost hypnotic with how even it was. "What is your name?"

"I'm -" She brought a hand up to her head, leaning back against the frame if the doorway. "I'm -"

"What is your name?" He asked again, and his face began to swim as she clenched her eyes shut, grinding her jaw.

A firm arm held her steady as she heard the sound of a door opening, pulling her closer as they maneuvered into the room.

"Just leave me alone," She half begs, cradling her head. She felt disoriented.

The man - she knew him, didn't she? - sat her down on the bed, and a thrill of alarm rushed through her at the thought of being alone with a stranger.

But he … no, he wasn't a stranger.

The man - who she knew, didn't she? - was talking, not to her - to someone with a low urgent voice that she couldn't hear right. Phone?

"What is your name?" He asks her again, and she presses the heels of her hands against her eyelids even as she shakes her head, refusing to answer.

"I need you to tell me your name," The man insists again, and she doesn't want to hear it doesn't want to think about it doesn't want to list don't want to want to don't want to _don't want to _-

"Hotch, what -?"

Her eyes fly open and there's someone in the doorway.

"Case," The name flies out of her mouth before she knows where it came from. "Casey, what's -"

"What did you call him?" The man - who looks like Dad but isn't because Dad never looked at her like that - asked again. So many questions. Her head _hurt -!_

There were more people in the doorway. More people in the _room_.

"What's your name?" The first man asks again when it's clear she isn't going to answer, and she holds back a whine in the back of her throat.

"I don't -" She tries and fails to talk.

"Hotch, don't push her like this," Uncle Rob tells the first man off. No, not Rob. Not Case. Not Dad.

"We need to push her to remember," Hotch - the first man - shoots back, and she just wants to curl up in a ball because her _head hurts_.

"Your head hurts?" A woman with dark hair that she _knows_ asks her, approaching her slowly like a skittish deer - is she a deer? Did she say that out loud? Is she speaking or thinking?

Is she a deer?

"Hotch, let me try," A tall man steps forward. Who-?

"Hey, it's me," The man crouches in front of her, taking her hands. She - she knows him. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," She chokes out. "No. I don't know."

"_Think_," He presses, and something about the look in his eye sets something off in her.

"Bree."

She's crying. She's crying.

"No, you're not," She shakes her head. "You're not Bree because Bree is dead. I _know_ you're dead. I _saw you die_."

"I'm right here," He comforts her, and he pulls her into a hug. "What's your name?"

"I'm -" Her head is spinning even more. She can't breathe. "Jane."

"You're Jane?" Hotch - that's _Hotch_ \- asks her, voice low and level. "Is that your only name?"

"No, I'm Jane," She thinks, voice trembling. "But I'm also -"

"Who are you?" Hotch steps forward, locking eyes with her over Not-Bree's shoulder.

"Head hurts," She - whoever she is - wimpers, and she thinks she's gonna faint.

"Shit," Not-Bree, swears as she begins to go limp. "Reid, get over here."

"What's going on?" Another woman's voice comes, sounding concerned - for her? Why would someone be concerned about a No One?

There are fingers on her neck, probing her face and pulling at her eyelids. She doesn't like it, she tries to pull away, but she's being held still by the arms caging her.

"Her brain is fritzing," Not-Case speaks, pulling her out from Not-Bree's arms and laying her back on the bed. "She suppressed all of this for a reason, and with too much coming out she can't keep up."

She can't _breathe_.

"_Shit_," Hotch swears softly, and she can feel her head swimming as she gasps desperately for air. "Reid -"

Someone is pulling at the strap across her chest, tugging it over her head. There's a rustle of fabric, thick fabric, and then a pinch at her neck -

She sinks down into oblivion.

* * *

Reid removes his hand from their doctor's neck, watching as her eyelids fluttered and she fell into unconsciousness. The sound of him capping the syringe in his hand seemed to echo in the silent room.

"That's why she could never remember," He speaks, turning to look at his team. "Her subconscious won't _let_ her. She's in denial, and pushing only confuses her. She's not going to remember anything unless she had no choice _but _to."

"She didn't even react when I called her 'Mari'," Hotch brushed aside a lock of Jane's hair. "She took it in stride, barely noticing it, until I pushed her. Asked her to make a choice of name. She could walk right into her old bedroom right now and only see it as an old crime scene."

"What can we do?" Garcia asks, horrified as she wiped tears from her face. "She needs to be recognized - not just for her, but for the sake of the people relying on Colemyer. And it's our _job_ -"

"We have to convince her without making her look into her memories," Rossi thinks aloud. "If we can show her proof that she, as a doctor, can't refute then she will have to accept it."

"Like what?" Emily laughed harshly. "There's nothing that we haven't already tested."

"Except for DNA," Reid cuts in. "We never had a sample of her DNA."

"Can we get one now?" Morgan stood from where he was sitting on the bed. "We need something physical, yes, but maybe not DNA. JJ, you contacted Robert Leon, right?"

"Yes, he'll be here tomorrow morning."

* * *

**TWO DAYS LEFT**

* * *

Jane woke up with a hangover. Sorta.

"Jane?"

She pushed herself up, glancing over how she had seemingly fallen asleep in bed with her clothes still on, although her bag and boots were set off on a chair beside her bed. She scrubbed a hand over her face, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Morn', Emily," She yawned, massaging away a pain in her neck.

"How are you feeling?" Emily asks her, an odd note to her voice. Jane is too groggy to care.

"I don't know what the hell I drank last night, but I don't think I was supposed to," Jane joked weakly. "I have a killer headache."

"You blacked out, then?" Hotch - when did he get there - spoke from the doorway. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Ummmm," Jane had to think, reaching for her water bottle to sate her parched throat. "You and I were walking back to my room - to here. God, I hate you - did you break into Rossi's office and steal his scotch or something?"

"Or something," Aaron answers noncommittally. "Well, now that you've been eliminated you're mostly out of the process. Unless you found anything off about Number Ten?"

"Teddy Bear Ten?" Jane asked rhetorically as she began to pull on her boots. "Nope. Kinda wish it'd be her, really. I think she deserves it the most. She the only one left?"

"She's the only one not eliminated," Emily corrects her cryptically.

* * *

Robert felt a little bit like he was walking to his death.

The blonde woman who picked him up from the airport was smiling at him, but the ice that formed in his stomach whenever he thought about little Ivy was still there. The hope painful, because he didn't know what was worse. Her being alone and afraid or her being dead with her family. Where he may never see her again.

It all hurt.

"This way, Mr. Leon," The Agent - Media Liaison, whatever - directed him, and he adjusted his strides to follow her into a briefing room full of more agents. The part of him that used to be a Naval officer stood at attention at the cool confidence in the room. The uncle in him wanted to punch all of them and get to his niece.

"Mr. Leon, my name is David Rossi," A man a couple years younger than him with a military bearing - Marines, he'd bet - introduced himself, extending a hand which he took on autopilot. "Has Agent Jearau told you about why you are here?"

He shifted his weight, his joints groaning, and took his time to scan the boards around him before he answered. "She told me that your amnesiac coworker may be my neice, but is in complete denial and you need to figure out how to get her to remember without completely shattering the trust she has in you or traumatizing her any further than she already is, is that correct?"

Robert tore his eyes away from a picture of Arthur and his kids, and turned to face Rossi again. "Is that _correct_?"

He was so tired.

"Mr. Leon, I understand that this is very difficult for you," A tall, serious looking young man - so much like Arthur when he was stubborn. God, he missed that man. "But after talking to Jane - _Mari_ \- last night, it seems as though we have another option we have to consider."

"Jane?" Robert felt himself curious, looking over the agent carefully. "She called herself Jane?"

"Dr. Jane Hart," A wiry young man spoke up, cleared his throat - shifting awkwardly when Robert turned his gaze on him. "She is one of the youngest and most qualified medical examiners and forensic pathologists in the country. She's saved and helped save thousands of lives, including most of the agents in this room."

Robert felt a smile tug at his lips at the young man's ernest and open face. "I always knew she would save the world," He almost-laughed. "She always was the type."

"Mr. Leon -"

"Robert," Robert cut the serious man off. "Call me Robert. My niece saved your life, and I bet you saved hers. Robert."

"Robert," He started again. "I am sorry to be so direct with this, but time is a factor we must consider. Last night, I went to talk to Jane; she and I are friends and I hoped that a less formal approach to finding her memories would be more effective."

"Hotch -" The skinny kid took up (was that the serious man?) "- tried to talk to Jane, but she couldn't remember. Actually _could not_, as her psychological reaction to being pressed resulted in her becoming severely disoriented and then having a panic attack."

Robert gulped.

"We are certain that our Jane and your Mari are the same person," Hotch - probably - told him grimmly. "And with the sample of DNA you brought in we'll be able to prove it. But we are very wary of pushing her to realize that. As you are the last living relative of Mari, we need your permission as you hold power of attorney."

"Permission to what?" Robert can't even fathom what they could be getting at. "You can't push her - she'll break!"

"That is precisely what we're saying," Agent Jearau soothed him. "We want to work with you and the lawyer of the Colemyer estate so that Jane can be recognized as the heir without her knowing."

"What? Why?"

"The dissolving of the Colemyer estate would be very dangerous to the world economy," The skinny kid chipped in again. "And with that hanging over us we can't give Jane - _Mari_ \- the help she needs. If we work together, we can get Jane acknowledged as the heir, keep the company running, and then we can begin to introduce the idea of Jane being Mari to her without harming her in the process."

"And you need me to say 'yes,'" Robert sighed. They nodded. "Okay, _okay_. _Yes_, okay? Can I see her?"

* * *

"Jane, you busy?"

She looked up from her backlog of paperwork to see JJ and Aaron standing in her doorway, Aaron inscrutable as ever and JJ looking - oddly enough - a bit nervous.

"I'm just drowning in paperwork, no big deal," She answered her Unit Chief's question. "You need something?"

"Just hoping you would sit with a guest," JJ told her chipperly. "Robert has some time to kill, and I'd stay with him but we need to wrap up the Ryden case and I need to contact Liber about some arrangements to be made."

"So you don't want to leave some poor sap in the waiting area for goodness knows how long," Jane finishes for her, shooting Aaron a brief glare in momentary memory of her hangover. "Sure."

With a wariness that she couldn't place the reason for, the agents walked away and left an older gentleman lurking in her doorway, hands clutching a small box in his hand. He looked ...

Jane smiled at him wryly, tilting her head to the chair across from her.

"My name's Dr. Hart," She introduced herself as the man walked over, his eyes never leaving her face. "They call me Jane. Do you know how long you'll be here?"

The man seemed to take a moment to find his voice, his eyes flickering around the office. "Whenever Agent Hotchner comes back, I suppose."

"He's intimidating," She nodded, closing the file in front of her and sitting back, discarding her pen. "But he's a good guy. The best."

"You're … friends?" He asked almost desperate, somehow. "You're there for each other?"

"He's the reason I'm still here," She smiled smally.

"I'm -" He chokes up, and Jane sits forward, worried.

"Sir?"

"Robert," He corrects immediately, and he relaxes as she nodded. "I'm … I'm fine."

"You, well you don't really look fine," She rebukes him gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He nods, studying the box in his hand.

"I … my niece is in a lot of trouble," He admits. "And I can't do anything to help her. I have to trust that … that those Agents out there are going to be able to help her when I can't. And I barely _know_ them and -"

"And she's all you got," Jane finishes for him, recognizing the look on his face. She saw it in the mirror whenever one of her team gets a little too close to death.

He nods again. They fall into silence.

"Aaron - Agent Hotchner, Hotch - wasn't actually the one who recruited me to the BAU," Jane begins to speak after a moment, twirling a paperclip between her fingers. "A man named Jason Gideon was. And Gideon didn't tell Aaron anything about me - only that I was a doctor and that I was good."

Robert's eyes wouldn't leave her face. He was paying rapt attention. She didn't know why she was telling him this. She didn't tell _anyone _this.

"When I came to the BAU, I was a mess," She admitted wryly, rubbing her forearm absentmindedly. "I walked into the bullpen with no warning, skirting through the halls dressed in all black, grumpy and hungry. I am told that I was quite a sight."

She laughed, practically a snort, and her guest seemed to relax at that sound.

"Gideon found me staring down some upstart agent who tried to read me the Riot Act for having muddy boots - he managed to pull me into Hotch's office before I tore the guy's head off," Her eyes went a little distant as she recalled the day. "Now, Hotch was expecting a talented doctor, probably some professional, middle aged woman with pressed slacks and heels - but when a short, twenty-something _angry _woman was practically shoved into his office spitting nails, he actually went speechless. Something, that if you know him, is very difficult to do.

"But he went through the formalities anyway, the questions and the paperwork. Eventually he hired me. But that's not what was impressive about Aaron."

Robert shifted as she pulled her attention back to the room, to the man in front of her; she smiled another small, sad smile at him.

"Aaron knew that I was sketchy as hell, that I was clearly from someplace he never wanted to contemplate. The kind of place you see in case files," She sighed, stretching her neck absently. "But he didn't pretend to be ignorant. He told me: 'I know that where you come from was hell' - he used that word, _hell_ \- 'but I'll make you a deal. You care about people.'

"And he stopped talking, just then. Waited until I nodded indignantly, then he continued: 'So I'll make you a deal. You accept our help, and I'll guarantee that there will never be a time that we won't accept yours.'"

Robert wiped away tears; Jane pretended that she couldn't see them.

"Aaron didn't _have to_," She clarified, _needed_ to clarify. "He couldn't've said anything. Could've refused to hire me outright, or made a stipulation. But he made it so I almost had to stay, and as I did, he would be able to help me no matter what."

Robert swallowed roughly, pushing back more tears.

"I'm glad he's looking after my niece, then."

* * *

"So, you're number Ten - or, should I say Mallory Sosa?"

Rossi studied the woman in front of her, looked at the way her shoulders curled with guilt even as her spine straightened with determination. She was a strong woman, even if you needed to take a second to realize it.

"I cannot be charged for being here, I signed that paper just like everyone else did," Mallory stated, refusing to apologize.

"Why?" Emily asked, pressing the woman. "Why would you devote so much time to becoming Marisole Ryden? The money?"

"_No_." The slight woman shoved back, steel coming forth - offended at the thought. "My whole family relies on Colemyer for our jobs. Our _lives_. My older brother realized that the company would be dissolved if an heir was never decided."

"So, what?" Rossi smirks. "You thought that you'd pay some hacker to hide your identity, and then you'd swoop in and get the fortune for your own?"

"_No_," Mallory insisted again. "I was going to fake it long enough to abolish the heir system, then come forward. If it meant that my family wouldn't lose their jobs, their homes, their pension, then that's fine, isn't it?"

She took a deep breath. Gathered herself.

"So it's Four, then, isn't it?"

Mallory watched as the two agents exchanged speaking glances.

"Ms. Sosa, we have a proposal for you."

* * *

Hotch watched Jane as Robert was escorted out by JJ and an unusually blank-faced Morgan. He was watching her like he did right before he logged something in the book. Like whatever he was seeing, he had to commit to memory perfectly - if only long enough to transcribe it all the moment that she left the room.

They always were polite enough to profile her when she wasn't in the room.

"What did you think of him?" Aaron asks casually, so casually that she knows it's a test, somehow. She figures she has nothing to lose from answering honestly - not worth the effort, anyway.

"He is a very sad man," She sighed, stepping level with him and pulling up the edge of his sleeve to slip her fingers along his wrist. "And … I feel for him."

"Feel _what_?" Aaron presses.

"Feel … like he and I share some pain," Jane half-muses, then blinks herself out of it. "I don't know why. I've never met him before."

She removes her hand from his wrist, and catches a package sitting on the arm of her guest chair. She frowns, recognizing it as something that the older man had carried with him when he entered.

"Hey, Aaron," She pulled his attention to it. "Is Robert out of the building?"

"Oh, that," Hotch almost-dismissed the box, small enough to fit in her hand. "He meant to leave that, although I imagine not exactly with you. It's a gift."

"Oh?" She tilted her head, opening the box - lifting the lid carefully - at her friend and Chief's nod of permission. "What for?"

"We helped him find someone, even if they were not the same person he lost," Hotch answers vaguely, and she shrugs off the lack of detail as necessary for confidentiality. Jane's a doctor, she gets that.

"So …" Jane tilts her head, taking in the silver c-bracelet resting in a small cushion within the box. "Jewelry was his thank you?"

"Apparently y- … the person he lost wore a c-bracelet every day, a habit she'd had since she was a kid," Aaron stepped forward to pick up the silver piece of jewelry. "Robert apparently thought that one for us was appropriate."

"Should the team take turns?" Jane jokes, even as she feels oddly uncomfortable with the suggestion. "I mean, it looks very much like something that Emily would wear."

"How about you wear it first then?" Hotch offered, an odd note to his voice. "I know you didn't work Robert's case, but you did keep him company and he left it in your office. When you feel like passing it on, you can. No rush."

Jane shrugged, pulling fabric aside to make room for the bracelet on her wrist, her fingers pulling it on in a smooth motion she couldn't explain. A satisfied smile graced her lips once the cool metal hit her skin, but she pushed it back as she tugged her glove back into place.

"Well, at least Penny can't get mad at me for having _no_ color in my wardrobe," She joked.

Hotch smiled at her, even if it was a little too sad - her sense of humor wasn't _that_ bad was it?

* * *

**DEADLINE - MET**

* * *

"Mr. Leon, I'm glad that you could join us," Hotch shook Robert's hand when he entered Strauss' office. Quick introductions flew around, and two BAU agents, a Section Chief, a worried Uncle, and company lawyer all sat down to talk.

"Mallory Sosa has agreed to be the public face of Marisole Ryden, as limited as that will be. In a year, we will declare her as a fake." Liber assured the room, "I managed to get a compromise that the heir does not need to actually be present if an appropriate proxy is available."

"The proxy being Mr. Leon," Rossi clarified, and nodded when he received a confirmation. "And you'll handle the company completely?"

"I won't be involved, but Liber will be," Robert told the room gruffly. "They'll just keep doing what they have been."

"While also taking advantage of our lifted restrictions," Liber added smuggly.

"Now there is the issue of Dr. Hart - Mari, that is," Strauss corrected herself. "And the best way to address her amnesia."

"The best way to address her amnesia is not to," Hotch insisted, gaining the attention of the room. "The more we push her further back into her shell she retracts."

"Now that we know who she is, we can begin to encourage behavior and the recovery of memories and old personality traits that she used to have," Rossi expanded. "It will take time, lots of it, but she's shown progress since she began to wear that bracelet."

"She's smiled more, and been more interactive with strangers," Rossi confirmed. "We keep a log even still of her recovered memories and slips, and Dr. Reid has insisted that the rate has increased drastically."

"We are doing what we can," Hotch assured Strauss - but especially Robert. "It is not going to be a fast process, and we need to be careful not to uncover undue trauma, but we are doing everything to help Jane. Help _Mari_."

"Okay," Robert chokes out, scrubbing his eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

"So did we ever end up finding Marisole Ryden?" Jane asks Hotch a week later - and if Aaron wasn't so worried about how long it took for Jane to reorder her thoughts to ask essential questions, he would've found her 'oh wait, _shit_' face hilarious. She didn't use it often.  
"Officially, Number Ten has been declared the heir," Rossi tells her, and Hotch approves of his lack of using names.

"Oh, that's good," Jane looked pleased. "I liked her."

"I'm glad," Hotch smiled, and the tension over the last week finally beginning to abate as Jane dismissed the topic entirely in favor of her charts.

* * *

"Hey, Four," Morgan called from her doorway - for some reason sticking with that stupid nickname. "Someone here to see you."

Jane looked up from where she was repacking her go bag to see Rhys Olivier standing in her doorway with another man, whose fingers were threaded through his. He looked nervous, like Robert had a few days ago, but Jane stepped up to greet him all the same.

"Mr. Olivier," She smiled, glancing to his companion. "And this would be Kyle?"

Kyle nodded and stuck out his hand, studying the woman he'd heard so much about.

"We wanted to thank you," Rhys speaks after their hands drop. "I know that you put a lot of time into the elimination process, and that it isn't typically your field."

"I'm just glad something came of it," Jane shrugged with a smile. "It would've been a pity if it was all for nothing."

"We …" Kyle begins to speak, exchanging a glance with Rhys. "We were going to get some lunch before our flight, and were wondering if you wouldn't want to come with us? Our treat - a thank you for all your hard work."

"Sounds like a great idea," Morgan is suddenly enthusing. "I'll tell Hotch."

Jane blinked, a little bewildered, but then shrugs again.

"Why not?" She laughs.


	21. 21

"Robert," Hotch hear Morgan call out, his voice laced with surprise. "We didn't expect you back for another couple weeks."

Hotch stood, stepping out of his office and scanning the bullpen for any sign of Jane. She should've been off on a consult, but there was every reason to be cautious. If she asked too many questions about Robert, it could impede her recovery.

"Mr. Leon," Emily joined Morgan as Hotch picked his way over. "I know that this situation is difficult but it's important that we approach this carefully."

"I know that," The older man snapped, fingers flexing around the grip of his cane as he lifted a notebook higher. "But Agent Hotchner said to get this information to you as soon as possible."

"No, Robert," Hotch cut in. "I told you to _begin to compile_ the information as soon as possible so you could add to it as you remembered more. I never said you should bring it in, and certainly not in person."

"I -" Robert huffed. "I just -"

"You wanted to see her, and that is completely understandable," Hotch soothed him, extending a hand to take the notebook. "And this is going to be very helpful. But we can't afford to be sloppy, especially since Jane - since _Mari_ has had profiler and FBI agent training herself."

Robert just nodded.

"Do you want to sit down and go over this?" Hotch asked, tilting his head with a slight smile. "We can't do it here, or now, but if you want to talk then that's something I can arrange."

"No," Robert just laughed, his lips tugging into a wry, self deprecating smile. "It's all there."

And then Jane walked in.

"Morgan, walk him out the side way," Hotch quickly orders, eyes on where Jane was in a halfhearted argument with Reid. "I'll distract her."

" - you are a coward and if you even _think_ about trying that with me I will stuff your nostrils with pineapple and sew them shut," Jane is threatening, a finger jabbed in Reid's face even as she fought back a smile.

God, she was so much more animated.

"That's pointless if you're trying to get me off your back," Reid just laughs at her. "You'd just have to undo your work and save me."

"Why are we threatening Jane?" Hotch asks, bodily blocking Jane's view of the bullpen.

"Well you see -" Reid starts before part of a bagel is shoved into his mouth.

"Eat more," His fellow doctor ordered, effectively shutting him up.

JJ joined them then, a pile of files in her arms - which she then passed to Hotch. "Sorry to interrupt … whatever this is," Their Liaison spared Reid and Jane a confused look. "But I've scheduled a consult at the moment with a case I think we should take. Round table room in an hour?"

"Whenever you need us," Hotch nodded, sliding the notebook under a file and passing them both to Reid to read over. "I'll pass these around, get to your consult."

JJ nodded, walking off at a clip; Reid gave Hotch a meaningful look, fingers curling around the load in his hands and nodding toward Garcia's office.

Hotch just blinked back and redirected Jane towards her office.

"Okay, what the heck?" Jane laughed, cramming the rest of her bagel into her mouth. "I mean, I love you Rin but you have been acting _weird_ recently."

"Don't worry about it," Aaron just smiled at her. "But have you read that book Reid lent you?"

"_Tuck Everlasting_?" Jane snorted, fingers going to the bracelet around her wrist. "Yeah. I don't read much, but it was short. Babbitt is good. Don't know why he would read it, though - it's a kids book."

"Nostalgia?" Hotch shrugged, eyes on her face - every part of her body language.

"I guess," She shrugged right back, making her way around her desk. "Just strange - I typically think of Baby Spinner reading, I dunno. _War and Peace?_"

"I can see that," Hotch settled down across from her. "So should I give it a read myself?"

* * *

"Everyone, this is Agent Russell Goldman from the San Diego White Collar team," JJ introduced the older man in an out of style suit, passing Jane a file as she spoke. "This is everything Garcia pulled together on him for you."

Jane smiled in thanks at the both of them, immediately reading through it even as Goldman seemed to get extremely flustered.

"I'm sorry, why do you need my file?" Goldman is asking, most likely aimed at her, but she's looking over his recorded BP and doesn't feel like answering - and she doesn't need to anyway, her team has it covered.

"She's our doctor," Rossi had pity on the desk agent. "As long as you are working with us, she's in charge of your health and wellbeing. She can't do that if she doesn't know your file."

They go into the briefing as she continues to read, eventually turning to the case file as well, tuning in to their discussion.

"Do you have physical evidence confirming it's your guy?" Morgan was asking, skepticism tracing his words.

"No, but for her to be murdered the night that we spoke, I don't think it was a coincidence," Goldman frowns, picking at his nails.

"No sign of forced entry, theft, sexual assault, or any further disturbing of the scene - that all says personal motive," Jane contributes, panning through the crime scene photos in front of her. "I'd say either a partner or a client, possibly both."

"What's his hustle?" Emily asks.

Reid was giving her an appraising look, and Jane returned it with confusion. '_What?'_ She mouthed at him. He just shook his head, wiping his face clean.

Jane tunes into the rest of the briefing, eyes on the face of the dead woman in her file.

What was going _on?_

* * *

"I can't believe you guys have your own jet," Goldman leans over Rossi to peer out the window. Jane has to hold back a laugh at the disgruntled look on the Italian's face.

"We take turns piloting," Emily offers with false ernest. "You want to give her a try?"

Jane skirts around the White Collar agent, plopping herself down next to Morgan.

"LeFay," Jane greets him, reaching over to flip his file shut. "So you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"What are you talking about, Four?" He asks, brows furrowing with a touch of confusion.  
"Oh, come _on_," Jane punches his arm. "You know what I mean - you've all been acting strange and I want to know why."

"Strange?" Morgan repeated, and now he's _definitely_ not confused. Just hiding something.

"Cute," She sighed, giving up with Goldman giving them strange, prying looks. "This isn't over."

* * *

"Morgan and Prentiss, go to her house. Take Jane with and - Agent Goldman why don't you join them?"

"I sent his case files to the field office." Goldman blinks at him in confusion, fumbling for words. "Shouldn't I stay with you and help you sift through them?"

"I'd like to go through them independently, come up with our own theories," Hotch shook his head. "See if any behavioral patterns emerge that'll help us get ahead of him."

* * *

Morgan pulled him aside as soon as the plane landed.

"Jane's asking questions," Hotch supplied before Morgan could say anything.

"What do we tell her?" The younger man half-groaned, his muscles flexing with how tensely he was crossing his arms. "That we're … what?"

"She's getting better," Hotch mirrored his posture. "We can't jeopardize that."

"I -" Morgan laughed, eyes turning to where JJ and Jane were deep in conversation. "She punched me, in the arm. When was the last time she initiated casual contact? Not for her job, or to comfort a victim. Just to touch for the sake of it."

"Never," Hotch shook his head wistfully. "Tell her to talk to me about it. I'll come up with something."

* * *

"She was a real estate agent," Emily picked up a frame. She felt Jane brush past her to the spot where the victim's body was recovered.

"She was doing well for herself," Goldman agreed, looking lost in the foyer. "Until William came into her life."

"Why do you call him that?" Emily put the picture back down, facing him.

"He -" Goldman gathered himself, a touch embarrassed. "Introduced himself as Bill, Billy, or Will several times in his early cons. My guess is that his real name may be some form of William."

"So most of his victims were very wealthy, right?" Emily pointed out, studying Goldman.

"You should see some of their mansions," Goldman agreed.

"Well, I'm looking around this house and it's nice - but no mansion."

"If the numbers from the file are right then she didn't invest as much as his other victims, either," Jane called from the adjacent room. "Em, come see this."

"Yes?" Prentiss made her way over, Goldman trailing awkwardly behind.

"This glass covering is completely shattered, most likely from where her head was rammed into it," Jane gestured to a large frame on the wall. "Between her long fingernails and the sharp edges, the chance of our UNSUB not having cuts on his hands is slim. I'm going to check in with the morgue, see if any trace DNA can be found and if it's in VICAPP."

"You found that by looking over the scene?" Goldman asked, shyly glancing to and away from Jane. "You must be very talented."

"I have crime scene investigative training," Jane nodded, pulling off her gloves. "I'll check the house a bit more before I go."

* * *

"The CIA assigns an agent two or three aliases at most," Rossi is writing on the board as Jane walks in. "Any more than that and it's difficult to keep the names straight."

"This guy's juggling 10," Reid scrolls through the pages on the laptop, and Jane pulls up a chair next to him.

"Being all these people, that's gotta start fracturing him somehow," Rossi points out, and again there are more eyes on her.

"What?" She asks, eyes swiveling between Hotch and Spinner.

"Anything to add?" Aaron asks, tilting his head.

"On the name thing?" She asks a little incredulously. "Well, names are like shoes. You gotta break them in before they feel right. The less you tie to the name, like memories or events, the less comfortable the shoe. 'Hart' was a shoe I wanted to wear - a pair of comfy combat boots, say. But if he's juggling a whole closet then his toes are going to be pinched."

Rossi and Aaron both look thoughtful, nodding. Spinner is smiling a smug little smile at her.

"If his memory is strained, it could be causing him to lose control," Spinner gets back on topic after a moment.

"We have the current aliases," Hotch agrees. "We just need to know who the clients are."

* * *

The boat is far nicer than Jane had ever been before. Except for the dead body on it, that is.

"Checkbook is dated, but there's no name," Jane touches the legal pad lightly with a gloved finger. "No name ..."

"The unsub got _that _close to getting his money, somehow failed, and then did this," Emily extrapolated, standing with Rossi over the body.

"And this is overkill," Rossi gestured. "He bashed his head in. He's completely unhinged and devolving fast."

"It's the _name_," Jane repeated, standing and replacing the covering over Mickelson. "Date, pen, no name. Y'all were right, he can't keep them straight. Probably snapped when he gave the wrong one and had to flounder."

"Only he doesn't know he's devolved this much," Emily realized. "He's still trying to go to work - and he doesn't know he's in danger of losing it at any minute."

"How many names has he got left again?" Jane asked grimmly.

* * *

"Jane, did you get anything from the morgue?" He asked the doctor, pulling a chair next to where she was glancing over a file.

"Blookwork under the fingernail of the first victim has yet to come back, but if this guy has been as careful as we think then it's not going to lead us anywhere recent," Jane shook her head, closing the folder. "But they're rushing it through anyway, even if the results are most likely going to come in too late to be of any use."

She turned to face him with an expectant look on his face and Hotch steeled himself for the conversation to come.

"I know you talked to Morgan," He started for her, extending his wrist to her. "And I know you're getting frustrated."

"That's _one_ way of putting it," She grumbled back. "Why won't you tell me anything?"

"Because if we say exactly what we're doing then it might stop working," Hotch replied cryptically. "Jane, I want you to think. For the past couple weeks, has anything felt different?"

"_Felt_ different?" Jane echoed. "What do you mean?"

"Think, when we asked you about names - was there anything _different_ about how you answered?"

"I …" Jane blinked, and Hotch knew that he was getting into dangerous territory. "No?"

"Jane, you used a _metaphor_," Aaron smiled at her. "That's not something you do, not like that."

"So …" Jane's mind is racing behind her brow. "You're doing something. Making me … something."

"We're not _making_ you anything," Hotch shook his head, stepping closer. "We're just trying some things out."

"And when Spinner stares at me for no reason or you ask me questions randomly?"

"Just ignore the looks and answer best you can," Hotch smiles, gathering himself to stand. "C'mon, we have a profile to give."

* * *

When the case is over, Emily slides next to her in the jet.

"I think Goldman had a crush on you," She smiles, and Jane immediately wants to sink into the seat. Or through the bottom of the jet and straight down to the ground far below.

"Ew," She shuddered. "Just - no."

"I dunno, I think you would've been cute together," JJ chimes in. "He's shy, you're … you."

"No, complete that thought," She twisted around, deadpan. "I _dare_ you."

"I mean, you did smile at him," Spinner adds his two cents, and she's mandating vaccinations for _all of them_. "You don't do that often."

"I _smirked_," Jane corrects, trying to bury herself into her charts. "And I smirk. Deal with it."

"O-_kay_," Hotch swooped in to save her, even if he was fighting back a smile himself. "Leave her be."

Morgan was still singing 'sitting in a tree' behind her, but the rest of the team shut up.

* * *

After Jane went home, they gathered in the Round Table Room.

"So I read over the journal that Robert gave us, and with Garcia we added it to the rotation," Reid reported, as Hotch - the last to arrive - joined them. "Her likes and dislikes in terms of food and entertainment should be easy to address. Garcia and I have that."

"I'll take a look at old skills and hobbies," Emily offers, looking over the online file. "At least on the not-art part of it."

"I can take the artistic and more social areas," JJ follows up.

"And I'll be asking her questions about it all," Hotch finished. "But that's going to be the easy part."

"Yeah, the tough part is ours," Rossi nods to Morgan. "We need to play the dead card."

"I still don't completely understand what you're doing," JJ admits, glancing between the two men.

"I'm going to be meeting with Robert Leon _quite a lot_ to try and begin to emulate him," Rossi explains. "And Morgan will be looking into how Gabriel Ryden acted when he was still alive."

"The idea is that if we jog something in her memory by doing something she'll recognize, knowing that we already remind her of people from her past, then she'll begin to remember more." Morgan crossed his arms. "And Reid would look into Casey Ryden if he wasn't such a poor actor."

"Excuse you, I'm a _great_ actor," Reid objected without heat, grinning at the deadpan looks he got back.

"Sure you are, kid," Morgan laughed. "Sure you are."

* * *

Jane stepped out of her car, juggling her keys as she made her way to her door. Her foot hits something on her porch, and she looks up to see a cardboard box on her stoop.

Her stomach drops.

Gingerly picking it up and stepping into the dark foyer. She fumbled for a moment, juggling her case files and the box until she turned on the light.

She dumped everything on the couch Aaron convinced her to buy, ducking her head to pull her satchel off, before pulling the box out of the pile. She made her way over to her table, steeling herself to open it.

"What -?"

Inside the box was a single black lotus flower, its petals drooping with the strain of being too long out of water after being cut. An envelope stuck out under the stem, and oh-so-carefully she slid it out.

She took a deep breath and carefully tore it open.

'They said she was you. It was a lie. You'll always be real to me.'

It wasn't signed.

Swallowing roughly, she grabbed the lotus and shoved it down her sink drain, turning on the garbage disposal and turning the faucet on its strongest flow to drown the ugly plant.

Leaving the water running, she grabbed a box of matches and set the note aflame.

**Edited 3/22/20**


	22. 22

It was a humid summer in Boston.

With Them it was always sunny and blisteringly hot, even in the dead of winter, it seemed. In Detroit, Louisville, New Orleans, Denver - they all were different. Different from There, different from each other. She loved it though, even if the sticky heat of the East Coast wasn't exactly welcome. But she _chose_ Boston. _She_ chose.

Even if it kinda felt like Boston didn't choose her.

"Excuse me, miss?" A man's voice sounded from her side, and she barely turned to face him.

"What?" She half-snaps, too tired to deal with someone trying to pick her up.

"You can't go in there," The man - a beat cop in uniform - held out an arm before she walked right into a strand of caution tape. "This is an active crime scene."

Jane knew that these days white dudes were being killed, and everyone at the clinic was going on about safety measures and mace - but Jane didn't give a shit.

Until now. Until it interfered with her _sleep_.

"Since when?" She scanned the section of sidewalk. It was wet from the early morning fog, and the tape extended into the alley behind and part of the street ahead. It didn't make sense.

"Why would the crime scene still be active?" She asked, eyeing the pool of blood and the contaminated evidence left and right. "Those stains are at least 6 hours old, and you should've processed everything by now. This is a busy street."

"Because it's part of that serial killer's spree," The officer smiles with a sliver of 'official' pride. So he _was _flirting with her, ish. "They're keeping the scene clean until then."

"The evidence is all contaminated by the fog," Her eyebrows draw together, irritation rising. "And that tape is way too far out. The scene is mostly contained to the alley and part of the walkway. This is unnecessarily obstructive, especially with everyone coming back from their graveyard shifts or headed out for their early morning coffee. This is a major street for commuters."

"It's all to protect the people from the killer," The officer shoots back, dropping the flirtatious edge - not liking her tone. "You would think that stopping this psycho from killing again would be more important than a cup of _joe_."

"This isn't even the same guy!" She snapped back, fed up and done playing nice. "Look, those footprints? The bloodied ones? They're either a men's twelve or fourteen - and, lemme guess? Your victim was a white man? Blonde, I'd bet?"

"How did you -"

"The victims of the serial killer - who, by the way, is _not_ on a spree - were all brunettes. Caucasian, yes, but their photos were leaked yesterday. All brown or black hair. Now, by that time any copy cat who was planning to kill a white dude would've already been too far into their planning to want to let it go. So they kill Blondie anyway and stage the scene so that the connection would be assumed."

The cop's jaw muscles flexed with is anger. "You don't know what you're talking about," He practically hisses, aware of the attention they were gathering.

"The _shoe sizes_," She shoots right back, throwing her hands up. "I can see them from here - no matter how _contaminated _they are. Twelve or Fourteen, men's. All the other victims were hit in alleys, but never head on and _never _in the early mornings. If the killer killed Blondie six hours ago then he did it around one A.M. All the other bodies were _found_ at one A.M. - and by bartenders or transients or whoever the hell was in those alleys, all of which were _south_ of here by at least five blocks."

They were getting a lot of stares at this point.

"And his shoe sizes says that he's big, and if he's big then that means that he's strong or at least build enough for it not to matter. There's no struggle - no disturbance other than the blood from your victim, so that means that he went down and he went down fast. Messily, but quickly. So either your killer suddenly lost the appeal of beating the shit out of his victims before stabbing them like 20 times, or this was a calculated kill made to look like it was another serial."

"What does his size have to do with anything?" A nearby officer - a woman, probably a detective - asked. A serious looking older guy next to her was watching the argument intently.

"The news said that the other victims _tried_ to put up a struggle," Jane sighed, annoyed and tired and not in the mood for 20 questions. "_Tried_ means that they _couldn't_. They weren't small dudes, so if they _tried_ to put up a fight but couldn't do it properly then the killer -"

"Unsub," The older guy interrupts her, but she shrugs it off.  
"_Unsub_ was blitzing them. Probably head trauma and probably with a found object from the alleys," Jane rolled her eyes at the expressions on the detective's and officer's faces. "No reason to do that if you're a big guy unless you're insecure - but this guy has been flaunting himself and his kills, gaining confidence: more beating before the stabbing, more stabbing when he's done with the beating."

"But this unsub, at this scene, was big enough that blitzing wasn't necessary," The older guy finished her thought. "Good work."

"Oh, no," Jane shakes her head, frowning. "I am not _working_. I am trying to get _back to my apartment_ to _sleep_, but these bozos tried to tell me that they had to block of _all of this_."

She gestures wildly at the whole setup, and the crowd that was staring at her.

"Can I go sleep now?" She asked acerbically, practically spitting at the cop still blocking her way.

"Sure, absolutely," The helpful man gestures to the tape. "But first, could I ask for one more thing?"

"_What_?"

"Your name," He smiles in a way that would almost be charming, if he wasn't also picking her apart with his sharp gaze.

"They call me Jane."

And she ducks under the tape, cutting across the crime scene, and belined straight for her apartment building - less than _fifty feet from where she was held up_.

* * *

Gideon watched as the young woman left.

Young, probably in her early twenties. Dark clothing, threadbare, and boots falling apart with use. A bag over her shoulder, less a purse and more a craft specific kit. Based off how she spoke, something related to criminal investigation or the justice system. Unlikely to be on the prosecution side, more likely a CSI, ME, or investigator.

But she didn't act like a cop, and she didn't seem to recognize any of the police at the scene, nor them her.

And she was _smart._ With good instincts.

"Do you know her?" Gideon turned to the detective he was consulting for … McLarson. "Seen her around at all?"

"No," The woman shook her head, eyeing the building that she had crossed to. "Was she right?"

"Spot on, and she got it quicker than expected of a stranger on the street," Gideon took note of the address. "_Much_ quicker."

* * *

When the case is resolved, he comes back.

As luck would have it, Rossi was in town for a book signing and their paths crossed. (Jason suspected that Dave had called in a favor to track him down, but that was beside the point.) So Gideon, returning plenty of favors involving similarly hairbrained schemes, dragged him along.

"Why are we here?" His old friend huffed as he pulled open the front door into the lobby. "When I saw you I was hoping for some nice wine and a de-stressing chat about divorce lawyers. Not some apartment hunt in the worst part of Boston."

"I'm not hunting for an apartment, I'm hunting for a _person_," Jason corrected him quietly as he approached the pitiful reception desk. "Hello, I'm looking for a friend of mine - only I don't know her apartment number. Jane?"

"Jane has _friends_?" The scruffy young man snorted rudely. "602."

"Appreciate it," Gideon nodded to him, headed for the elevator.

"Sorry pal, it's out of order," The clerk calls at their backs, stopping them dead in their tracks. "You'll have to take the stairs."

* * *

The moment she saw who was on the other side of the door, she slammed it shut.

And put in earbuds. Billy Joel would drown them out.

Half an hour passed, though, and the album ended. She warily went to the peephole.

"Why the hell are you still here?" Jane deadpanned when she opened the door again, staring down the man she had talked to at the crime scene a few days ago and another well dressed guy.

"I would like to speak to you," He answered, calm in the face of her irritation.

"And him?" She nodded to the other man, who she was sure she'd never seen before. "Why is he here?"

"Because I'm curious what kind of woman my good friend here would wait half an hour outside the door of."

"The kind of woman that isn't interested in talking to cops," She snarls, going to close the door again.

The badge held up right in her line of sight stopped her.

Damn. She knew that she didn't give a crap about cops. She didn't know how she felt about federal agents yet.

She left the door open for them, crossing her shithole apartment. A small part of her was self conscious of the peeling paint and water stains.

"Nice place you got here," The bearded man, the one she hadn't seen before, commented dryly. Yeah, like she didn't already know it was barely worth the rent, thank you.

"Your name is Jane?" The first man asked rhetorically.

"How'd you find me?" Jane idly started sorting through her pile of bills, keeping her hands busy.

"Your doorman seems to think that you don't have many friends," He doesn't answer. "I would suggest some place with better security."

"I get the security I pay for," She dismisses, bracing her hands against her kitchenette's tiny island. "And a place like this doesn't exactly break the bank."

"You're smart," He jumps to a different topic, studying her … like _They_ did. But … kinder. Interested, not expecting. "The way you broke down that scene says so. And it says you've got CSI training, even some hands-on experience. So why are you working and living out of the worst part of Boston?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"You should use the skills you have," The second man snorts, and the judgment on his face is enough that she wants to smack him. "Not let yourself rot away in some seedy apartment."

"Is there a point to all of this?" She almost-growls, fingers flexing under the counter edge as her gaze flicks between the two men. "Because there _really_ should be a point to all this."

"The _point_ is that you _glanced _at the scene and immediately made observations that officers who had been on the force for _years_ couldn't make. _Didn't_ make. All while you were irritated and dead on your feet, I should add. " He was still studying her, "And because of that we caught two killers."

"You caught the same details," She dismissed his reasoning. "I didn't do anything that would'nt've already been done."

"What's your name?" He ignores her point, changing topics.

"They call me Jane," She answered on reflex.

"Jane …?" He let his question trail.

"You have one of my names -" (_not even her name_, a whisper in the back of her head corrects) "- and I have none of yours."

"Jason Gideon." He extended a finger to his companion, "This is David Rossi."

"Well Jay, Davie," She pasted a curled snarl onto her lips. "It was nice to meet you. _Get out_."

"We're FBI agents," Davie tries to step in, frowning at her diminutization of his name. "We -"

"Have no reason to be here because _I am not a criminal_," She cut him off, pointing at the door. "_Out._"

"I think that you are miserable here, even if you don't fully realize it," Jay bulldozes through. "And I think that you could do a lot more good with the Bureau than you could here -"  
"I'm a _doctor_," She cut him off, offended. "I'm a damn good one too. I do plenty of good here."

"You're a doctor and you're just sitting here, doing _nothing_ with your life?" Davie scoffs, spreading his arms wide at her place. "Do you even -"

"Get out or I'll call the cops."

"There's not need -" Jay tries to calm them down.

"You're just _wasting away_ -" Davie gets in her face, eyes alight.

She punched him in the nose.

"I said: _get out_."

They finally left.

* * *

The next morning, as she left for her shift, she found a business card placed deliberately outside her door.

She didn't know why, but she stuck it in her satchel.

* * *

Months later, she was on the steps of the Boston Public Library and - well ...

She was fingering the same business card between her fingers as they went numb in the late autumn air. Her breath fogged and crystallized in the light of the streetlamp.

She pulled out her phone. She couldn't dial.

She'd looked them up. Just … out of curiosity. Profilier. Good, really good. Founding members of the modern Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The moon went behind a cloud. The temperature dropped even further.

She punched in the number. Didn't call. _Couldn't call_.

What was she afraid of?

She didn't know if she liked -

No. She knew.

She wanted to _matter_. Because to Them she didn't mean a thing.

She hit dial. Pressed the phone to her ear, barely feeling it with how numb they'd gone.

"Jason Gideon," He answered, and her voice went dry.

"Hi," She finally got out, swallowing dryly - the cold stinging her throat. "I'm - well, I'm -"

"I'm sorry, I'm on a plane at the moment," He apologized - Gideon - and she had a second to gather herself. "I can't hear you very well."

"I'm Jane," She finally goes with. Easy. Straightforward. Simple.

"Jane …?" He repeats, before he seems to get it. "Oh. Jane Doe."

Her breath caught. She screwed her eyes shut, digging her palm into her eye.

"Hart," She corrects him, drawing in a shaky breath. She forced herself to sit up, push it all back. "Dr. Jane Hart. That job offer still up?"

"Yes," He confirms, and she thought he might be smiling. "Are you interested?"

Deep breath.

"Where do I sign?"

* * *

Jane looked up through the rain at the building in front of her, crumpling the piece of paper with the address in her hand.

Fuck her. She was gonna hate this.

She pushed through the doors, eyeing the hustle and bustle of the lobby. She could stay and check in …

Well, she didn't know if she liked to follow government protocol, yet. Best find that out sooner rather than later, with this job on the table.

(Plus she _really_ wanted to see if she could get past their security. She had learned last month that she liked sneaking around.)

She adjusts her posture, cool casual confidence replacing her earlier annoyance as she adjusted her bag and walked straight through. Deadpan expression and deliberate, clear purpose will get you in _anywhere_ \- she learned that even when she was There.

For a federal building, their security kinda _sucked_.

She makes it to the elevator, then drops the posture. If anyone who cared saw her as out of place this far into the building then they would assume that she was meant to be there. Ah, the wonders of the human mind. People missed stupid shit like that because they trust each other.

Cute.

The directory on the elevator's panel said that the BAU was on 6, meaning that she was most likely to find Gideon there. Find Gideon, and she never has to go back to Boston or … _There_ … ever again. Game plan.

She can do this. Just … get there. Gideon will do the rest, he said he would.

The elevator dings open on two, and a well built man with perfectly coiffed blonde hair steps in. He's taller than her (everyone is taller than her) and he sends her a look that is half questioning and half assessing.

"You also headed to six?" The man asks her after he goes to press the button and sees it lit. "I haven't seen you around before."

His smile is half flirtatious, but Jane knows that if he's headed to six then he knows how to spot the edge of the hell she's gone through poking out behind her mask.

Or ... maybe he doesn't, she considers as he continued to chatter inanely.

Somehow that's worse.

"You wouldn't've," She replies shortly, and steps out before him when the elevator dings open.

She gives a quick scan of the half-open area just down the hall; she sees a number of desks in the middle of the room and a handful of offices along the elevated walkway. Blondie walks past her to a desk, where he's joined by an arrogant looking redhead with a loosened tie and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He practically _screamed_ 'arrogant dickhead'.

Just what she needed.

The light in the office labeled 'SSA Jason Gideon' is out, and the door locked when she checks, but there's an empty desk with an equally empty chair that she decides to kip out at in the main bullpen. She has some paperwork for her shoebox of an apartment to finish up anyway.

She gets through maybe a page and a half of legal bullshit before she gets interrupted by Carrot-Douche and his Goldilocks friend.

"Hey there, lovely," Red swaggers up to her. "What might your name be?"

"They call me Jane," She goes with, still after all of these months forgetting in that one split second her new name. Hart, _Hart_.

She missed being Doe. Jane Doe didn't sound like some trashy romance novel heroine, like _Hart_ did.

(God did she hate Them.)

"- if you need anything," Carrot-Douche is still speaking, and she blinks herself out of her thoughts to level a deadpan look at him.

"I heard none of that," She tells him flatly, turning back to her papers.

"No need to be _rude_," Carrot-Douche changes his tune, his attitude taking a complete 180. "You shouldn't even be working at this desk, anyway. It's reserved for the new doctor that we're hiring for Hotchner's team."

Which made it sound as if he wasn't on said team. Excellent.

She continues to ignore him.

"How'd you even get in here?" Carrot-Douche tries another angle. "You're soaking wet and dripping water everywhere - and your boots are _filthy_. What, did you just come off the _street?_"

Jane sees red. There's nothing _wrong_ with living on the street. She lived better on the street for nearly a _year_ than she did during all of her time with _Them _and -

"Back. _Off_." She hissed, suddenly in his face even though he has nearly a foot on her. "You arrogant, entitled, son of a -"

"That's _enough_."

Jane recognizes the voice, standing her ground all the same as Carrot-Douche stumbles away from her. She smirks a satisfied twitch of her lips at him, then turns to face her new maybe-boss.

"Gideon," Jane greets him flatly. "If I have to work with Carrot-Douche over here, I'm quitting before you can even hire me."

Carrot-Douche and his friend both make sounds that are a mix between offended (Carrot) and amused (Blondie). Then they process the rest of what she's said and are and suddenly very, very worried.

Guess they connected the dots.

"Neither Agents Cole nor Goldrosen are on my team, no," Gideon raised his eyebrows at her. "But name calling is certainly uncalled for."

"So is harassment, _sir_," She bites back, anger remounting. "And if FBI agents don't know how to leave someone alone then _why should I work here_?"

"You should meet our Unit Chief," Gideon changes the subject instead of answering her question.

He actually grasps her elbow to steer her into an upper office, and she pushed back her flinch at his touch - but she sees him notice the suppressed action. Luckily he doesn't comment.

Once inside she ignores the startled inhabitant long enough to throw a last dirty look at Carrot-Douche - before Gideon deliberately shut the door, cutting off her line of glare. She turns to stare him down instead.

"Gideon, who is this?" The agent behind the desk breaks the silence after a long moment, and Gideon looks away first.

"This is Dr. Jane Hart, the woman I told you about," Gideon introduces as she begins to investigate the office idly. "Dr. Hart, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief."

"Nice to meet you," She glances his way, not accepting his extended hand. Calm down. _Calm down. _Don't flip out even further on your first day. Get out of Boston, that's your goal.

Agent Hotchner eventually retracts his arm, his face smoothed over. She catches him exchanging meaningful looks with Gideon.

"So is this a job interview or an orientation day?" Jane finally asks, turning away from the mediocre view from the window. Hotchner was wearing a silver tie.

"A little bit of both," Hotchner answers with a tilt of his head. "You already have the job, but what exactly that job is defined as has yet to be determined, as a position like the one we are proposing has never existed before. Additionally, your file is very slim - we need to discuss what you are most qualified for."

"I'm a practicing and licensed medical doctor, forensic pathologist, and medical examiner," Jane provides as she studies the slight sheen of the ID clipped to his suit jacket. "I take care of you, the team, the victims, and the dead bodies."

Agent Hotchner is again silent, and the itch is there. The _itch_ she gets whenever someone is picking her apart (profiling her - now that she's met Gideon and has a word for it). _They _gave her that itch, all the time. But apparently, for the most part, Agent Hotchner is more subtle.

The three of them go through the motions. She signs some forms. She gradually calms down, and Gideon pulls up a chair.

"I have a proposition for you," Agent Hotchner spoke after the signatures were done. "I'll even make it official with paperwork."

Jane tilted her head, seeing Gideon straighten up - just slightly. Not planned, then.

"I know that where you come from was hell," Hotchner begins, and she has to squash down the desire to bolt to the door. "That you were there and it hurt you, and it hurt you badly."

"That is none of your business," Jane fights to keep her voice level. She has experience.

"It is if you work with us," Gideon tilts an eyebrow and her, and she wants to slap it off his face.

"I'll make you a deal," Hotchner brings them back on topic. "You care about people."

He paused, and she bristled at the sliver of perceived accusation. With a glower she gave a short, sharp nod.

"Then I'll make you a deal," He repeated. "If you join this team, if you _accept our help_, then I'll guarantee that there will never be a time that we won't accept yours.'"

A pause. He doesn't elaborate.

"How?" She finally broke the silence.

"I'll give you the authority to pull anyone from the field on medical grounds - including Gideon and me," Hotchner's lips turn up. "You'll have access to everyone's complete medical files and information. You'll have final say on anything regarding an agent or victims health."

Jane swallowed. It was tempting.

And she _really_ didn't want to go back to Boston.

"Deal."

She turned to face him fully, and in the process caught sight of Carrot-Douche and Goldilocks through the window.

"But I want my own desk - and as far away from _them_ as I can get."


	23. 23

The sun was going down.

She had wandered around for a couple hours, paying no attention to the people passing her on the street. Instead her eyes were on the curves and sharp corners of the city, the pretty and the old and the ugly and the new. Eventually her feet took her to the older neighborhoods, passing by brownstones and vine covered buildings that screamed of old colonial pride.

When the sun began to touch the horizon, she found herself at the foot of the stairs that she remembered so vividly. Remembered that phone call so vividly.

Jane made her way up slowly, sitting herself down on the very step she made that call on, all those years ago.

Six years. Yesterday, an eon ago.

She took in the hustle and bustle of people, everyone headed somewhere for some reason. She felt small again, like she did all those years ago.

The sun went down.

Then the melancholy is shattered by the sound of her phone going off.

"Dr. Hart," Jane answered automatically, not bothering to check caller ID. Only Aaron would be calling her, considering it was technically her day off.

"I've finished up with Shaunessy," Hotch spoke grimmly through the phone, the sound of him clambering into his car filtering through the speakers. "You still coming back with me?"

"Where should I meet you?" Jane asked rather than answer. Aaron grunted on the other side, thinking.

"Shaunessy was on the south side, right?" Jane supplied for him, recognizing when his mind was a thousand miles away. "I'm too far to get there easily, and I'm hungry. Meet me halfway."

* * *

"So did you come here often, when you were in Boston?" Hotch finally asks Jane halfway through their meal, each of them previously too focused on their seafood and the work-related shit going on in their heads to engage in more than just smalltalk.  
"No, too high out of my price range," Jane smiled smally, spearing a shrimp on her fork. "But I did used to see this place when I left work - always wanted to go in, never could."

"Out of your price range?" He raised his eyebrow at her, sitting back slightly to scan the other diners. "You worked here as a _doctor_, Jane."

"I lived … frugally," Jane brushed off evasively, shrinking slightly under his gaze. "Some debts to Them I didn't want to leave unpaid."

Aaron tried to keep the sympathy off his face. And the anger. It … _might've_ worked.

She cleared her throat noisily then, taking a swig from her water. "So, Shaunessy. Why did he want to see you? You owe him money?"

Hotch sharply jerked his chin in a negative, his mood abruptly dropping even further; he took a second to find the words.

"Shaunessy made a deal ten years ago," He confessed lowly, keeping other tables from hearing in the crowded restaurant. "To stop hunting the Reaper so long as the Reaper stopped killing. The contract expires the same time that Detective Shaunessy does."

"The Reaper …" Jane mused, sitting back to recall where she'd heard the name before. "That was your first case as lead, wasn't it? You still work on that profile, sometimes."

Hotch nodded, resuming eating.

"You know …" Jane began to muse. "I was called in as a second, maybe third, opinion on some injuries when I was last in Boston. Must've been, oh, six, seven years ago? A man who had been stabbed something like 46 times, Foyet?"

"George Foyet was the only surviving victim," Hotch nodded, eyebrows raised. "Quite a coincidence. Why were you consulting on his case?"

"The wounds, though healed, were still debilitating," Jane quirked a lip wryly. "Even though Foyet was on a host of drugs for his condition, he collapsed on the street one day and had to be taken into a clinic. Mine just happened to be the closest."

"So you got roped in once they realized that it was out of their realm," Hotch smiled, ever amused by people inevitably turning to Jane to solve their problems. "At least you're familiar with the case then?"

"The bare bones, only what Foyet told me," Jane shrugged. "But there wasn't much I could do other than recommend that he get some surgery to reduce the internal scarring. I don't know if he took up the offer, I left Boston maybe a week later."

"This was _right before_ you joined the BAU?" Hotch asked, surprised. "That is some coincidence."

"Yeah," Jane furrowed her brow. "It is, isn't it …"

* * *

Jane barged into his office after Garcia left, leaving him with the personal ad highlighted in mocking yellow.

"You gonna talk about this like a big boy, or am I going to have to get LeFay in here to hold you down?"

"Hold me down while you do what?" Hotch raised his eyebrows, tilting his head at Jane as he carefully placed the printout in the folder on his desk. "Interrogate me?"

"How about 'tickle you until you crack'?" Jane offered dryly, snatching up the file off his desk before he could stop her. "Like an egg."

"An _egg?"_

"Oh shut up, Rin," The doctor rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I do, I do," Hotch admitted, crossing to meet her halfway and offer his wrist. He felt grounded by the routine, as if the shitshow of the Reaper deal hadn't just turned everything upside down. Even though it very much had.

"This is proof," Jane flicked through one-handedly, looking over the sketch of a profile he'd compiled over the years. "The contract was real."

"Yes."

Jane studied him. She took in, no doubt, the bags under his eyes and the skew of his tie and the smell of coffee on his breath; he, in turn, took in the spiked red choker that Garcia had shoved her way and the smudge of ink from her fountain pens across the side of her jaw.

"Don't do this alone," She cautioned, their eyes locking. "You have a team for a reason."

And she gave his wrist one last squeeze before walking out the door, dropping the file off on his spare chair on her way out.

* * *

"Man, I can_not _be the only one who sees the obvious tension between those two," Morgan groans, eyes on the retreating figure of the Doc as she returned to her office from Hotch's.

"Obvious _sexual_ tension," Garcia murmurs into her coffee cup, and Emily reaches over to smack her for it. "_What?_ You can see it. I can see it. He's a divorced man, and she's hot and mysterious and they've been friends for, like, ever."

"That doesn't mean that there's … _that_," Reid tries to comment, clearly uncomfortable. "And Jane has never been in a relationship, she said so."  
"_When?_" Morgan's attention is suddenly on Reid. "When did she say that?"

"Never Have I Ever," JJ confirmed. "But, technically, she said she had no _memory_ of ever being in a relationship."

"Umm, no, sweetcheeks," Garcia laughed, eyebrows dancing. "She said that she had no memory of ever _kissing_ a _man_."

"So … lesbian?" Emily offered bluntly, eyes cast around the bullpen for eavesdroppers. "Or terminally single."

"I'd say bisexual," Rossi offered from _right behind_ Emily, making her jump. "But I think Jane's dating has been far and few between. And also not relevant. Can we get back to work now?"

* * *

Jane trailed behind Hotch as he approached O'Mara, face set grimmly as the cop finished trying to placate the reporter-sharks sniffing for blood.

"I worked the reaper case for 18 months," The harried Boston man was saying. "If there's any proof that this horrible crime is anything more than a copycat, I'll be the first one to let you know."

Hotch came to a stop, the contract carefully held between his fingers as he shook O'Mara's hand, exchanging the usual greetings - crime scene edition.

"It's not a copycat, Mike," Hotch corrected the detective lowly, keeping his voice from carrying. "I wish it were, but it isn't."

"Yeah, no offense, you don't know that - and I didn't invite you in."

"Shaunessy did," Is all Hotch said as he passed over the bagged contract.

O'Mara looked like he was trying _very hard_ not to swear up a storm.

"Want to invite us in?" Hotch offered, as if it wasn't a forgone conclusion.

The cop could only nod, and Jane felt his eyes on her as she nodded at JJ and Reid to join them.

"You, you're that doctor, aren't you?" O'Mara finally seemed to place her. "McLarson told me about you. You helped with those alley murders and then got snapped up by the feds before we could snage you for ourselves."

"I am."

"How you got recruited?" Hotch turned to her, a flicker of surprise on his face. "How well known was this?"

"At least the whole force knew, or at least heard the story," O'Mara chuckled, a tinge of humor surfacing. "From there, anyone with too close of an ear to the pavement probably knew. Wasn't exactly pedestrian, what you did, Dr. Hart."

"And yet, I was merely a pedestrian at the time," Jane countered dryly as she dug out a pair of gloves from her satchel, switching out for the more practical when dealing with blood. "Let's see what we got."

* * *

When JJ answered her phone during the briefing on Foyet, Jane felt something sink in her gut.

"Hotch, there's a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you - and with Jane,"  
JJ passed along, clearly wary. "Roy Colson. Says he knows you."

Jane exchanged a glance with Hotch, which from him basically read '_You're coming. You got drafted. Congrats.' _ in a tone as dry as the Sahara, yet somehow still completely silent.

Jane sighed, gathering her files and adjusting her satchel as she followed after him.

* * *

"Roy," Hotch greeted the reporter, shaking his hand. "And you know of Dr. Jane Hart."

"Call me Jane," Is all Jane can summon to be cordial as she reluctantly took the writer's hand - a stranger to her. "I don't believe we've met."

"I've heard of you, is all," Roy smiled at Jane, eyes running over her with a reporter's eye. "So if it's just a copycat, what are you two doing here?"

"Helping the police catch him," Hotch replied without inflection.

"Is that your story?" Roy shook his head, glancing between the two of them. "Come on, I wrote the book on this guy. I even sent you a signed copy - I assume you got it."

"Officially, we have no reason to think that he's anything but a copycat." Hotch repeated, feeling rather than seeing Jane shift behind him. She wasn't enjoying the monotone he adapted - ironically enough, she never did enjoy when he slipped a mask over his emotions.

"Well, how about unofficially?" The writer came back again. "If this was a copycat, would you have left your people behind to start at the crime scene, all except for her?" He nodded at Jane. "She's established that she can look at a crime scene with one glance and know whether or not it's a copycat - so why did she barely look at the scene until you and O'Mara stopped having your chat?"

"What's more important to you, Roy?" Hotch countered levelly as he felt his stomach drop. "Getting the story or getting the killer?"

"I spent time with the families," The other man gathered himself. "I told the victims' stories. Now, you would know that if you read my book."

"It was a good book, Mr. Colson," Jane spoke up as he began to walk away, stopping him in his tracks. "Hotch keeps it on a shelf in his office, in the section that _isn't _just for show."

"You treated the victims with respect and you treated us fairly," Hotch affirmed, a little miffed that Jane was tattling on him like that.

"Every dime I made went to the families"

"I know," Hotch nodded, just once. "That's why I came down. The minute I have something to say, I'll call you."

They shook hands, and Colson nodded at Jane in farewell.

"If it's him, it won't be long," He called out to them as they stepped into the building.

Once they were out of earshot, Jane shifted closer to Hotch, their arms brushing as they walked.

"Why did he even want to see me?" Jane asked, tone dry. "He didn't even want to talk to me."

"He wanted to _see_ you, and use you to make a point," Hotch explained, a bad feeling building in his gut. "Jane, I don't like how much the people in this city seem to know about you."

"Nor do I," Jane murmurs, turning back to look at the doors. "Nor do I."

* * *

"Garcia can't find George Foyet," Morgan reported to Hotch grimmly, and he was taken aback.

"I've got nothing, sir," Garcia affirmed apologetically.

"What do you mean?"

"He's gone. I mean, he's completely off the grid," Their technical analyst expanded, distressed. "And he's gone."

"How is that possible?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Nine months after he got out of the hospital, he, uh, quit his job, sold his car, closed his bank accounts," Garcia rattled off Foyet's disappearance. "Canceled his credit cards, cell phone, apartment, _everything_. He has no paper, thus he has no trail - and I can't find him cuz he's gone."

"You think it's intentional?" Hotch asked.

"It's more than that," Garcia replied.

"But, wait," Hotch suddenly remembered. "Jane treated Foyet, before she joined the team - maybe a week or two before she left Boston. Is there any record of that?"

"Oh -" Garcia suddenly exclaimed. "Oh that's clever. Janey treated a Jorge Foyet - with a 'j' - nine days before she left Boston. But no address or phone number attached."

The sound of more clicks on the other end of the line.

"Deleting yourself like this, it's impressive," Garcia acquiesced. "And that he left even part of his real name at all is … sloppy."

Hotch glanced out the open door behind him, where Jane was talking to O'Mara.  
"Yeah, it is …"

* * *

"How did Colson find this guy?" Rossi asked, eyes on the relatively quiet street ahead of them.

"He interviewed Foyet extensively for his book," Hotch explained. "They kept in touch."

"So you used the writer to track down Foyet," Jane clarified. "Can't tell if that's a very good friend or a very bad one."

"They're friends?" Rossi asked, vaguely surprised.

"Sort of," Hotch shrugged a shoulder. "But Foyet wouldn't give him his phone number. He gave him one of his aliases, though."

"That's him," Jane leaned up from the backseat, pointing over Hotch's shoulder. "Same ugly coat I last saw him in."

They clambered out of the car.

* * *

Hotch and Rossi were both headed for the door, ready to leave after Foyet refused their protection, but Jane wasn't quite ready yet.

The sound of Foyet's coughing sounded … forced, which put her on edge. But it was probably due to stress, and there was still a layer of true pain under it that Jane couldn't ignore. Not as a doctor.

"You two go ahead," She called out lowly through the foyer of the impersonal house. "I'll call myself a cab."

"Jane …" Hotch frowned at her, not liking the thought of her alone when there was a killer on the loose.

"We'll send you a car?" Rossi cut over whatever protest Aaron was going to offer up.

"Nah, this is my old turf," Jane gave a brief smile. "I'll make it back on my own."

And with one last, long glance at her they walked out the door.

"Why did you stay?" Foyet spoke from behind her, and Jane had to force herself to turn around slowly. Something about Foyet … felt like Liberty Ranch, and Benjamin Cyrus, all over again.

_He's just another patient._

"I'll leave if you'd like me," Jane assured him quietly. "But I saw that you didn't leave a trail through hospital records, which means that you either didn't go to seek medical help, or you used aliases repeatedly - either way, no medical professional focused solely on your treatment, who had your entire history, has been able to help you."

"So you're saying you will?" Foyet smiled, gesturing to his couch. "I … thank you."

"I'm guessing the excuse of being late for work was more to get us out the door, huh?" Jane sat, pulling out her file on him. He shrugged sheepishly. "That's fine, I won't judge. Now I can give you a full physical, or we can merely talk this over, or something in between. What would you be most comfortable with?"

"Umm," Foyet ran a hand over the back of his neck. "The full physical?"

"Okay then, Mr. Foyet," Jane did her best to smile genuinely, pushing back her unease - silently reciting her Oath. "Let's see what I can do for you."

* * *

"This isn't healthy and you know it.'  
Aaron tore his gaze away from the pictures scattered across his bed, looking up at his returned coworker. Jane was lurking in his doorway, a frown fixed on her face.

"You always told me to either do something or shove it in a storage closet somewhere," He sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. "I should've listened."

"Oh come on, Rin," She scoffed, stepping into his hotel room. "You never listen to me."

"How was Foyet?" He changed topics. "Any different than from six years ago?"

"He didn't get the surgery, like I suggested," Jane sighed, flopping down on his bed. "But he never went to any doctor after that, so that's most likely it. I updated his prescriptions, advised him on how to treat some of his nastier scar tissue, and left when he began to get antsy."

Hotch was about to reply when the room's phone went off.

* * *

"What did he take?" Jane heard Rossi ask, and was about to point out the woman's empty ears when Hotch cut her off.

"Does it matter?"

Jane watched as first Aaron got off the bus, then Rossi followed him.

That damn phone call. Hotch was right, not to take the deal that the Reaper offered … but it must've felt a little like how Jane did tied to that chair in Hankel's shed. Shitty and guilty, as if even with their hands tied they could've _stopped this_.

Jane follows slowly, and waits until Rossi calms Hotch down before adding her two cents.

"If you had taken that deal," She piped up, hands jammed into her pockets, fingers freezing in her maroon gloves. "Then you would've only fed his fantasy. His narcissism. And even so, getting you the second time round - even if it was a jump from cop to fed - wouldn't've satisfied him for long. It was only a matter of time."

Hotch nodded, and they began to exit the alley.

"And if you'd taken the deal, I would've killed you dead," Jane checked his shoulder, burying a smile at Rossi's laugh.

* * *

Jane made a beeline straight for Morgan when she arrived on-scene.

"Let me take over," She ordered the EMT, already pulling out her gloves.

"Who -" The man rounded on her, before taking her in fully. "You Dr. Hart?"

"Yes, I'm Hart," Jane snapped at him, and Morgan couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at her crabbiness. "And that's my charge, so either step away -"

"Hey, _hey_," Morgan cut in, wary she was about to shove a scalpel into someone's neck. "It's cool, man. Let her take over."

The EMT stepped back, allowing Jane to seamlessly take over removing bits of window from his shoulder, and Derek watched the EMT watch Jane with something close to amazement. Or starstruck.

But the relief was there, that Jane was with him - taking care of him. Jane knew all of Morgan's health issues in and out, and as she began to shift glass out from under skin it was night and day to the stranger's touch.

"I should've been there," He heard Jane mutter as she dropped another piece of glass into a pan. "Should've had your back."

"You weren't there because you're not ready yet," Morgan shook his head, before stopping at the twinge it sent down his shoulder. "And you would've ended up just like O'Mara."

"Or maybe the both of you would've been fine if I had just _been there_," She growled. "All this training you've been putting me through, and I still get told to stay back while the rest of you storm the place."

"Jane -"

"_JJ _went," She pressed, dropping yet another piece of glass. "And she's a Media Liaison!"

"_JJ_ went through the Academy," Morgan placated her, hissing at the pinch of the numbing needle at his shoulder. "You got recruited. That doesn't make you any less capable, only less experienced. You'll get there."

"Not fast enough," Jane shook her head, voice tight. "Next time: I'm coming."

Morgan knew it would do no good to argue.

* * *

"Why is he so focused on Foyet?" Hotch asked the team. "What's so special about him?"

"He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn't defeat," JJ offered.

"But he took the body," Jane couldn't get over it. "He's never done that before. He leaves things, he doesn't take them."

"What are you saying?" Rossi asked, shifting to face her.

"Well, I saw Foyet, earlier today," Jane started to articulate, gathering her thoughts. "The whole time when I was there, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd met someone like him before." She glanced at Emily and Reid. "Foyet felt just like Benjamin Cyrus."

"The Cult leader?" Morgan clarified, receiving a handful of nods back. "Why?"

"He had … so many layers to him," Jane confessed, eyes on the pictures in front of them. "There's just something - something not clicking."

"What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand?" JJ asked, shifting gears. "What do we know about her?"

"19, a Freshman, she came here from Michigan to go to school," Emily supplied. "Foyet was a teacher's assistant in one of Amanda's courses."

"Hebephile," Jane immediately chimed in, rapidfire connecting the dots. "Michigan was where Shaunessy was to post the personal ad."

"He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes," Hotch clenched his jaw as he dialed to call Garcia.

"That gives him plenty of access to young girls," Rossi reiterated grimmly.

Jane cursed herself, she should've _seen it._

* * *

"You want the fame that's gonna come from the media," Hotch told the Foyet - The Boston Reaper - as Jane and the rest of the team entered the room and leveled their aim at him. "It's gonna be like Bundy."

"I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy," Foyet insisted - gun still aimed at Roy's head.

"Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead," Hotch stated, aim still true as Jane sidled up beside him.

"If you know me so well, how come somebody had to die to bring you here?" Foyet taunted, arrogance in his tone.

"That's your choice, not mine," Hotch bared down on him. "You're the serial killer."

"And she's the doctor who treated the serial killer," Foyet grinned - sneered - at Jane. "Do you regret helping me, Dr. Hart?"

"It wasn't a coincidence, was it?" Jane realized, gun aimed right at his heart. "You walking into my clinic. Who told you I was joining the BAU, Roy?"

"Couldn't resist," He bared his teeth at her, not answering. "Knowing the people who would be hunting me down, that _their doctor_ would have treated me."

"No," Jane bared her teeth right back. "I don't regret treating you."

And with that The Boston Reaper put his hands up, and Morgan practically tackled him to the ground.

* * *

"They didn't find your credentials at any of the residences," Jane overheard Hotch telling Morgan on the plane. They continued to speak lowly, going over the details of the blood and how Foyet was planning to fake his death. All Jane could pay attention to was the way that Morgan kept staring at that damn bullet.

"Morgan, you're gonna have to find a way to let it go," Hotch said, voicing her concerns from across the jet. She got up.

"Could you?"

"I'd have to."

Jane sat next to Morgan, shoving him towards the wall of the plane. She reached over and plucked the bullet from his unresisting grip.

"This bullet," Jane studied it. The blue tip, the heft. "I didn't have to dig it out of you. I didn't have to bury you with it still lodged in your rib cage. I didn't even have to scold you for getting it fired in your general direction."

Morgan just kept staring at the bullet.

"He didn't kill you," Jane emphasized, closing her fist around the bullet. "Didn't injure you, not anything you couldn't handle. And now, because he was an arrogant ass, you get to save a lot of lives."

She reached over, fingers curled over Derek's hand until it opened and she dropped it into his palm.

"That bullet means that you could've died, but you didn't. And it also means that now you get to make sure that a bullet just like that doesn't end up in someone else. Take the win."

Derek's fingers curled around the ammo, and with a clenched jaw he nodded.

"_Do _you regret it?" Reid asked from across the plane, and Jane turned to see that he was talking to her.

"Regret what?" Jane asked, having a good idea already.

"Treating Foyet," Rossi supplied for the genius, and the whole jet was listening. "When he was a killer."

"I only regret that I couldn't treat him better," Jane answered honestly, after a moment.

"Even though he could've _killed me_?" Morgan growled, angry.

"Especially," Jane leveled her gaze at Derek, meeting his anger head on. "I took an Oath, Derek. To value life above all else, even his."

The jet went silent, and Jane stood to move - but Derek grabbed her hand and pulled her back down, gripping her hand in mutual support.

* * *

"Jane, are you missing anything?"

Hotch stood in her office doorway, and Jane had to blink sleep out of her eyes at the question.

"Missing …" Her brain caught up. "No? Not that I know of."

"Can you check to see if your satchel has everything?" Aaron pressed on, and Jane reached for her bag before she processed why Hotch would be asking.

"My …" She double checked. "My stethoscope is gone. How did I not notice that?"

"It was found with the maps of the facility that Foyet escaped from," Hotch passed her a photo of her instrument weighing down a pile of papers. "He's mocking us."

"Yeah," Jane sighed, scrubbing at her face. "And he's mocking _me_."


	24. 24

The call went to voicemail after ringing out.

"Hey, Aaron," Jane started her message as she entered her apartment, knowing that her Unit Chief was still at the office. "My offer still stands. That apartment of yours is barely lived in, and God knows you kip out on my couch half the time these days. Just … stop by, if you want. I don't think any of us want to spend the night in an empty apartment, not after that damn farm."

She sighed as she ended the call, scrubbing a hand across her face. Her satchel ended up on her couch, followed by her jacket and overshirt - and she was just beginning to remove her boots when -

"Don't move."

* * *

"Where's Hotch?" Emily asked suddenly, standing over the cooled body of a hispanic man. "And Jane, for that matter."

"He's not answering his cell, neither of them are," JJ commented offhandedly. "I assume they're on vibrate. They'll get my messages as soon as they wake up."

"What's the money they're together?" Morgan muttered lowly to Emily, shooting an eyebrow waggle and grin at the team. "That would _distract _'em."

"Nope," Rossi dismissed. "Not thinking about that."

Emily smothered her laughs, mindful of the crime scene around them.

"Try them again," Rossi ordered, sobering. "They can meet us at Barton's house."

* * *

"This guy's a trauma surgeon working a major metropolitan area," Penelope pointed out to her Boy Wonder over the call, pulling up files left and right. "We are talking thousands of surgeries."

"Confine it to the last six months."

"That's still hundreds," She groused. Finding one dead stressor out of hundreds …

"I know," Reid pushed forward.

"Ok, do you want biographical information or full medical charts?" She offered him. "I can get you and Janey copies lickity-split!"

"Have you heard from Jane?" Reid asked, clearly surprised for some reason. "Or Hotch?"

"... They're not with you?" She felt her stomach drop, thinking back to the last time she'd seen either of them. They had both looked too worn around the edges for her liking.

"They're probably on their way," Her baby genius tried to brush it off, dismiss her worry - but even as Reid ended the call she had a bad feeling about it.

* * *

"Jeffery is leaving school in five hours. There's no way we can get through all these patients in this time."

Emily exchanged glances with Reid, silently trying to figure out what to say to Dr. Barton.

"Well, we've narrowed it down already -" Emily tries to point out their progress.

"And we still have a hundred left!" Dr. Barton exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be callus, but when you work in the ER you don't remember names: you operate and you move on."

_'We need Jane.'_

Doctors were her category, not theirs - no matter how many books Reid read.

"He's right. There are too many files here for us to profile in such a short period of time," Emily sighs, standing and gathering herself. "I can get to Hotch's and back here in half an hour. Chances are Jane crashed at his place anyway."

Reid's face twitched subtly at the hidden lie. Both of them knew that Hotch would know where Jane was, yes, but the two of them were both too secretive for the team to know _for sure _whose place they crashed at (and it took months of questionably-moral intra-team profiling to figure out that they crashed together at all). But telling the father of a threatened child how many stops she would be making would only work against them.

"Who's that? Who are they?" Dr. Barton asked, confused and worried.

"Our supervisor and our medical examiner," Reid explained briefly. "We weren't supposed to work today, and we're having trouble getting ahold of them."

"We need more eyes," Emily justified, adjusting a cufflink before walking out the door.

And if she walked a little faster, worry fueling her stride … well, no one was there to see it.

* * *

Emily pulled up to Hotch's apartment building first - her priority, she decided.

As much help as Jane would be with the charts, Hotch was still the profiler and still their supervisor. They needed speed and a new pair of eyes, and Hotch would be it.

(And if there was that little nosy part of her, the part that wondered if she would find Jane curled up on Hotch's couch or asleep … somewhere else - well, Emily couldn't be blamed for being human.)

"Hotch?" She called as she knocked at his door. "It's me, Emily."

No answer.

She rang his phone, and she could hear it inside the apartment.

_And the door was unlocked._

Her stomach dropped.

Emily pulled her gun, pushing open the door in one practiced motion - immediately cataloging what she saw as she swept the flat.

Hotch's keys on the side table, his briefcase on the couch. A bullet hole through the wall, clean through. Two blood stains on the ground, one larger, the other smaller - four feet apart. A broken glass, a discarded cell phone, and Hotch's sidearm in its holster on the table.

And _no one else there_.

* * *

"Hey," Reid answered his phone, not expecting Emily to call.

"Reid, something happened to Hotch."

"What?" He can't compute that. "What - what are you talking about?"

But Dr. Barton is talking and Reid's mind is racing a thousand miles an hour to comfort a concerned parent while still finding out what the _hell_ was going on from Emily - her explanation coming through rapidfire, like a flood.

Barton stormed out, Emily was still talking.

"There's a huge hole in the wall, probably a .44, but there's no blood or tissue spray around it," Emily was saying, finishing her rushed summary.

"Any idea how he got out?" He asks, mind racing.

"If he was shot, there are no drag marks - but a body could have been wrapped in something."

"Wait -" Reid ran back through everything Emily had said, recalling what he heard even as Dr. Barton was talking to him. "You said two blood stains."

"Yes, one larger, one smaller."

"Emily," Reid forced his voice out through his tightening throat. _"Where's Jane?"_

* * *

"Talk to me, Garcia," Emily answered on the first ring.

"Ok, I -" Penelope swallowed, tried to keep her heartbeat steady. "I called hospitals to see if Hotch had gotten himself admitted to an emergency room."

"And?"

"He's not listed as a patient, but someone dropped a John Doe off at a St. Sebastian Hospital," She dry swallowed again. "And that person's name was FBI Agent Derek Morgan."

"It doesn't make sense," Emily verbalized her thoughts exactly.

"I know, do you think they got their credentials mixed up?" Garcia asked, even as she knew that the both of them - and _especially _Hotch - were both far too vigilant to let that happen.

There was silence on the other end of the line - silence that was exactly the kind of non-noise that occured when one of her babies made the kind of epiphany that they _really_ wished they hadn't made.

"The Reaper," Emily found her voice. "Foyet took Morgan's creds."

"Why would he drop him off at the ER?" Garcia asked with poorly disguised confusion.

"Better question," Emily corrected in her Grim Voice. "Where, _exactly_, is Jane?"

* * *

"He was stabbed nine times, but no major arteries were hit," The doctor was saying. "It's a miracle he's alive."

Emily felt out of her depth. Hotch was unconscious and covered in bandages and machines were familiar but indecipherable. This was Jane's department.

Jane - whose satchel, with her phone, was in her apartment but who was nowhere to be found. Jane, who she had no leads on finding, not even knowing if she even _was _in danger until Hotch confirmed that that second blood stain was hers. Jane who - Jane who should've been right here, going over Hotch's chart and scowling at the lack of information.

"When will he wake up?" Emily asked, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

"The anesthesia should wear off within the hour," The doctor supplied. "But he's bound to be out of it."

The doctor left, and Emily's phone rang.

"Prentiss," She answered tiredly.

"How is he?" Garcia's voice came through.

"Stable, but still out of it," Emily answered, keeping her worry out of her tone. "Any luck finding Jane?"

"No, not yet," Garcia sounded distressed enough for both of them. "Her apartment has nothing on the cams, and without her cell we can't track her. No Jane Harts or … or Jane _Does_ have been checked into any hospitals for a hundred mile radius, and if she's not at her apartment or Hotch's …"

"We'll find her, Garcia," Emily assured her the best she could. "We'll find her."

* * *

_Gunshot._

"Reid?" Emily felt her heart plummet at the retort and the lack of reply. "Answer me. _Reid?"_

She calls dispatch and gets an ambulance and police sent to the Barton house, but she does it on autopilot. All she can think about is the line going dead and Hotch in that bed and Jane nowhere to be found and now Reid could be - could be _dead_.

_Why _did all the people she cared about have to get _hurt?_

And there was nothing she could do but wait and hope, and it was killing her.

* * *

Reid winced as he continued to put pressure on his wound, cursing for the millionth time that Jane was MIA. As capable as Dr. Barton was, he prefered Jane over a stranger, any day.

But Jane was missing, and all they could hope was that the Reaper hadn't gotten to her.

"You okay?" JJ asked, coming up on him with Morgan and Rossi close behind. "Is Jane here?"

"I'm fine," He tried to brush it off, knowing a gunshot wound to his leg was nothing compared to Foyet's knife. "Jane's not here."

"We'll get you to a hospital," Morgan nods, accepting the absence of Jane - not knowing just how bad that really was.

"You need to find Emily," Reid told them, the Barton case done now. "Call Emily."

"Where is she?" Rossi asked, beginning to pick up on the severity of the situation.

"Jane's missing," Reid gasps out through the pain. "And something's happened to Hotch."

* * *

Aaron woke up in pain, with a fog over his head like his head had been stuffed with pillow fluff.

Wait.

_There was something missing._

He forced his eyes open, vision blurry. Emily. Dave. Derek. Safe.

_But where am I?_

"In the hospital," Dave answered for him. Must've spoken out loud.

"How did I get here?"

His throat hurt.

_Something was missing. Something was wrong._

"Foyet drove you."

Morgan.

_Something was wrong._

"Can you remember what happened?"

Emily.

_'You should've made a deal.'_

"What'd he take?"

_Something was missing._

"What do you mean?" Dave asked.

_Something was missing. Something was missing._

"He always takes something from his victims."

The word feels heavy in his mouth. Heavier.

_Something's missing something's missing something's missing -_

"Do we know what he took?"

"There was a page missing from your day planner," Emily answered. "In the address section, the Bs."

_Bad but not it Bad but not it._

"What did he leave?"

"I don't know," Emily answered.

"He also leaves something with his victims."

The word is less heavy now. He's profiling, he's a _profiler_.

And he needs to be because _something is missing._

"Where are my clothes?"

They pass him his affects, pushing aside his blood stained shirt so he could get to the envelope of things inside. His fingers feel like they're moving through mud but he needs to _find what's missing._

There's a picture of Haley and Jack, with bloodied fingerprints on the surface -

And a single slash runs through the right side of Haley's face, right down her cheek.

_\- something's missing something's missing SOMETHING'S MISSING -_

"Haley's maiden name was Brooks," Hotch explains with half a mind, eyes locked on the cut. "I always listed her in the Bs …"

He trails off, but Rossi picks up where he left off.

"He knows where they live."

But something was _still missing._

This is why he hated being on drugs.

The cut on Haley's face.

Taking a page out of a day planner, even with his family on it, wouldn't be enough would it?

Then it clicks, the cut -

_Jane -!_

* * *

_"You should have made a deal."_

Foyet shot the wall.

"_Is this part of my profile - you can't show me fear?"_

_"If you don't see fear, maybe it's because I'm not afraid of you."_

Gun still aimed at his head.

_"You say that as if you actually meant it. How's my friend Agent Morgan?"_

He was messing with him.

_"Are you here to kill me, or are you here to play games?"_

A shift.

_"You tell me,"_ Foyet removed his mask, grinning. _"Or … you can tell _her."

Gun still trained on him, stepping back into the next room. Hotch's stomach dropping, dread building as Foyet reached down to pull up a limp figure.

_Jane._

"_She's no fun asleep," _Foyet switched his aim to her temple. "_But I had to get her here quietly. Luckily she carries all kinds of drugs in that bag of hers."_

He drops her, limp, on the ground. She sprawls across the floor, boneless. Dead to the world - but still breathing. Still breathing. Aim shifts back to him.

"_So tell us. Enlighten your audience about my behavior."_

They fought, Foyet had no one to defend but Hotch did. Foyet got the upper hand.

Hotch got a knife to the gut.

Taunts, and stabs, and taunts, and stabs. Over and over and_ over -_

But then he stopped.

"_Your Dr. Jane is a pretty little thing,"_ Foyet stepped over to her, tracing his knife along the front of her shirt. "_But she's so scarred up. Ugly, scars are - I should know."_

A sick laugh.

Hotch noticed for the first time the slashes running down the side of Jane's trousers, exposing her legs. Legs covered in as many scars as her arms.

_"The little prude's always so covered up, I had to see for myself,"_ Foyet mocks. "_And I think I know why. See this?"_

He reached down with a bloodied hand, lifting up Jane's camisole and exposing a red scar underneath, running across her stomach.

_"Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die?"_

Foyet traced the scar with his knife, leaving a trail of Hotch's blood across Jane's skin.

_"I don't want to brag, but I'm somewhat of an expert,"_ Foyet bared his teeth. "_Which means that I know that little Janey had her uterus cut out, but only after it was butchered first - so sloppy."_

Hotch felt rage - for Jane and at Foyet and at Them and at _everyone_ \- and it was almost enough to dull out the pain of him bleeding out.

_"It's too bad. I mean, what good is she to you if you can't have her pop out lots of emotionless, stone faced babies for you?_" Foyet leered. _"Seems to me the only thing pretty left about her is her pretty face."_

He raised his knife.

"_Let's see how long that lasts."_

* * *

"They're safe," Emily tells him once she gets off the phone.

A weight off his shoulders. Haley and Jack were safe, and now he just needed to make sure Jane was too.

"You were at my place, right?" Hotch asked raspily. "But Jane wasn't?"

"So Jane_ was_ there," Emily swallowed. "The second bloodstain was hers."

"Foyet -" Hotch struggled to remember. "He … right as I was passing out, he told me that he was going to leave Jane there. For you to find. But she wasn't?"

"Maybe Foyet lied," Emily offered. "Or Jane got help for herself."

"But you said Garcia couldn't find anyone at nearby hospitals."

"She's a doctor, she could've treated herself."

"But she would've _called us,"_ Hotch threw his head back into his pillow. "What if Foyet has her? He disappeared before, and with her drugged and injured he could've controlled her easily."

"Foyet wants you both to suffer, and he likes to watch," Emily reasoned. "You with your family, and Jane with … with not being able to help you. Help us. Chances are she's at least aware, because Foyet doesn't like torturing the unconscious - we know that with Morgan - and if she's aware she's smart enough to escape, or leave us a sign."

"She can be as smart as she likes," Hotch ground his jaw. "But if Foyet puts a knife in her it won't matter."

* * *

"I just talked to Spence, he's gonna be fine," JJ reported. "He's gonna have to be on crutches for a while, but he said kicking down doors is Morgan's job, anyway."

Her attempt at humor fell flat in the tense atmosphere. Morgan only tensed further at the joke.

"You know, Foyet having your credentials had nothing to do with any of this," Emily tried to reassure him. "It was just his way of trying to torture you."

"Yeah, I know," Morgan gritted out. "Foyet's about power and control. He was hoping to watch me fall apart, and now he wants to destroy Hotch - and God knows what he's doing to Jane."

Emily was just about to answer when JJ's phone went off, and the both of them watching as the Media Liaison answered it with a frown.

"This is Agent Jareau," JJ answered, before her face did a somersault and she quickly put it on speaker.

"- admitted with a facial injury, bicep laceration, and signs of being drugged," The professional voice on the other end of the line was saying. "Luckily someone dropped her off, and she had this number written in sharpie on her inner arm."

"What condition was she in when she got dropped off? And who dropped her off?" JJ questioned the woman. "What was she wearing when she arrived? Her arm was exposed?"

"She was still pretty out of it due to the drugs," The doctor - nurse? - replied to her flood of questions. "She walked in, confused, and no one saw who brought her here. She was wearing a white dress, a sundress, and was barefoot. Her arms and legs and her … her scars were exposed, and your number was written on the inside of her forearm."

Emily swallowed roughly, not even knowing where to start profiling something like that.

"We'll be right there."

* * *

Dave led the way into the hospital - a clinic, really, not even large enough to have security cams on the entrance, unfortunately - with his non-hospitalized teammates close behind him.

"We're here for-" He cut himself off, gathered himself through the irony. "We're here for your Jane Doe."

"Right this way," The nurse they stopped lead them through the clinic's single hall. "We're flushing out her system right now - and she's awake - but she's still not fully lucid. And whatever happened before she came here: it affected her, badly."

The nurse pushed aside a curtain, clearing way to a bed with their teammate and friend laying on it.

Jane looked like hell. She was curled in on herself, laying on her side in something close to the fetal position. Her arms were feebly wrapped around herself, and someone had thrown a blanket over her - adjusting it to expose her face and the IV running into her hand. She looked miserable and tired and as if she had all of her energy wrung out of her.

But she was there and she was _alive._

"Hey, Jane," Dave approached her slowly, carefully - the rest of the team hanging back to give her some space. "How're you doing?"

"Where's Aaron?" She asks instead of answering, face still buried - three straight cuts ran down her cheek from just under the bags of her eyes to her chin. Distinct but shallow, and perfectly parallel to each other.

"Aaron's at a different hospital, one we're gonna transfer you to in a bit." Dave told her gently, trying to coax her out. "But he's okay, and he's getting really good treatment. The doctors say that you have another injury, other than your face. What is it?"

Jane shrugged her upper shoulder weakly, and Dave reached over to gently pull back the blanket.

A line of stitches ran across her shoulder, amateurly done and clearly hours old. The thread was thick, wiry stuff and the ties were messy. The cut was placed where Jane couldn't have stitched it up herself - and even if she could've she definitely would've done a better job than this, even drugged.

"With the drugs still in her system, and no positive ID, we decided to leave them in," The nurse explained quietly. "They're ugly but effective."

"Someone stitched you up, Jane," Morgan stepped to the other side of the bed. "Do you know who?"

Jane shook her head, curling tighter.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dave asked instead.

She took a deep breath.

"Came home," She said. "Foyet was there. Came at me with a knife, cut me - arm."

"And then?" JJ prompted gently.

"He hit me," Jane began to shiver. "Got my bag - jabbed me with needle."

"Propofol," The nurse contributed.

"Woke up Aaron's place," Jane continued, not seeming to have heard the nurse. "Face hurt. Made it to door, went into hall. Dark out."

"You're doing great," Morgan assured her, then continued, pressing gently. "And how did you make it here? You showed up in a dress, without your boots. Do you know where you got it?"

Jane was silent for a long time. Dave was just about to repeat the question when she spoke softly, still shivering.

"Felt someone behind me," She curled up even tighter. "Thought could get help - find Aaron, call you. But I turned, a rag shoved in my face. Got dizzy. Another needle, then I was here. And it was light."

She went silent after that. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and it was clear the conversation was over.

The nurse ushered them away from their doctor, shutting the curtain with a sharp flick of her wrist.

"She's gonna be out of it for a while longer," The nurse explained briskly, no nonsense. "But with Propofol, the chance of her having any reliable memory of the events goes down significantly. Has she had poor memory recall when on medication before?"

"Yes, she has," Morgan confirmed, exchanging glances with the rest of them. "After New York, she didn't remember anything from when she was drugged up."

"Then I can't say that it is likely she will remember tonight's events," The nurse sighed. "Which is bad for you, as she can't help find whoever did _… this_ to her - but I would say good for her."

"What do you mean?" Dave asked, forehead creasing.

"She's a young woman with more scar tissue than I see on most burn victims," The nurse stated bluntly. "And between that and her apparently being FBI, that means she's stubborn as hell. Whatever happened between her waking up in that apartment and her walking in here was enough for her to devolve into _that._" She nodded at the closed curtain behind her. "Do you really want her remembering it?"

Dave couldn't form an answer.

* * *

Jane woke up alone.

And in a hospital.

And her face hurt.

Thankfully, she wasn't in a hospital gown. Someone had put her in sweats and a tank top, with a sweater carefully folded on her side table. All black.

So her team knew she was here.

What happened?

Foyet. Foyet was in her apartment, then he attacked her -

And nothing.

_Shit._

She grabbed her chart from the foot of her bed, mindful of the twinge in her shoulder. She reached over and ran her fingers over smooth, even stitching as she read.

Oh, well. Could've been far worse.

She flipped the clipboard over, using its metallic sheen to check her face.

Three ugly - but relatively shallow - lines running down her right cheek. Foyet's work, no doubt.

That's what they made concealer for, right?

Or maybe foundation. That would probably be more effective.

No one was around her, and she never was one for staying put - especially if a cut or two was the biggest of her problems - so she carefully turned off the machines and removed the various lines and wires from her person. Quietly, she pulled on the sweater - size indicating it was probably Morgan's - and a pair of boots that looked like her backup pair from her apartment.

She waited for a lull in movement in the hallway, the clock indicating that it was 4:32. AM.

Damn, it was early.

A nurse's station was left open, and she quickly filed her AMA form and discharged herself. Next, she checked the database.

Hotch _and_ Reid? Shit, what the hell happened?

Not wanting to risk getting caught, she left the station - grabbing a pen to write the room numbers down on her hand.

She also needed to get her gloves. Dammit.

She hit up Reid's first, it was closest.

Spinner was asleep - luckily _asleep, _not unconscious - and his chart stated a gunshot wound to the leg. If he kept off of it - which was unlikely - his prognosis was good. Jane might lend him her cane, just to spread around all the teasing she had to endure when she needed one before. She still had it, right? Maybe.

She poked around his room, finding his things - his messenger bag, specifically. Going through the contents yielded nothing helpful but a pencil (which she promptly used as a pin to put her hair up) and a case file on a threat against a father and son. Irrelevant to her, now that the team had resolved the issue. Nothing on Foyet.

With one last glance over her fellow doctor, she put the room back as it was and slipped back out the door.

Hotch's room was guarded, which was both relieving and irritating. But Jane just backtracked, slipping into a locker room she had passed on her way over. Going through a couple of lockers, she found some scrubs that would fit her and a white coat with _Dr. Kyle_ embroidered on the breast. A quick moment at the mirror to find a face mask and she was back on her way.

She made a big show of doing rounds, stopping at each room on the floor 'just to check in.' Most were asleep, and she made a show of checking over the charts of everyone who wasn't.

(Room 412 needed a PET scan. She made a note.)

Then she reached Hotch's.

"Excuse me, doctor," One of the guards - hospital security, it looked like - stopped her. "You can't go in there."

"I need to check on this patient," She tossed back. "He's in need of constant supervision, his condition could change at a moment's notice."

They stared each other down, the two of them, until the other guard interrupted them.

"What's with the mask?"  
"I have a sick daughter at home," She explained dryly. "Just a cold, and my husband is taking care of her, but as a precaution I need to wear it when dealing with my more at-risk patients. It's just procedure."

They stared a bit more. The guards exchanged glances.

"Go ahead," The first guard allowed. "He's a federal agent. He deserves the best care."

"And I'll be sure to give it to him."

* * *

"Did you seriously just bluff your way past hospital security by wearing a face mask?" A surprisingly aware Hotch asked her the moment the door was shut behind her. "Because if you were a con artist in another life, I feel like I deserve to know."

"Who knows what I was," Jane scoffed, picking up his chart. "You want to tell me what happened?"

And he did.

(She kinda wished he hadn't.)

"What do you remember?" He asked as she carefully put his chart back, a having read it start to finish. "From that night."

"Foyet was in my apartment," Jane thought back. "He taunted me - about you - and then attacked me. Got to my bag and drugged me. And then I woke up here."

"That's all?" Aaron looked worried. "Jane, that was three days ago."

Jane blinked, confused.

"What?"

That … it couldn't have been, could it?

"They had to keep you sedated," He explained, struggling to push himself up - she rushed forward to help him. "You were - you were in shock. Unresponsive."

"I don't remember anything," She murmured, adjusting his pillows with practiced ease. "I - I don't know what happened. How I got to that clinic."

"It's okay," He smiled, trying to ease her worry. "It's fine."

"I can't stay long, I'm pretending to be on my rounds," She apologized, glancing back at the door. "I'll see you soon."

And she got up, and pretended for the guards that she wanted to get out as quickly as possible and home to a sick daughter - rather than stay and refuse to leave his side.

* * *

Her apartment had crime scene tape on the door.

Three days apparently wasn't very long at all.

She ducked under it anyway, thankful that the door hadn't been sealed, at least, and quickly grabbed her go bag and her satchel - snagging extra money on her way out.

Where to?

She ran through her options in her head. Hotch's was out. JJ, Penny, and Dave would force her to go back to the hospital. Morgan and Emily would guilt her into telling the aforementioned, and the result would be the same. That left -

Oh. Reid was in the hospital. She could crash at his place.

A quick trip over on the metro, and she arrived at Reid's just as the sun finally came up over the skyline.

She came up on his door and dipped into her satchel, pulling out her lock picks as she glanced around the empty hallway. No one was there, so she dropped to her knee and picked the lock.

'_Take that, Turner_.' She thought. _'Living on the street_ is_ good for you.'_

She pushed the door open, locking it behind her, and flipped propriety the bird as she collapsed on Reid's couch, not even bothering to kick off her boots.

* * *

"Hotch, Jane's gone!"

Aaron blinked, coming out of his stupor - thinking about Jack and Haley - as a worried Reid rolled his way into his hospital room in his wheelchair.

He could only blink at the baldfaced worry on the young genius' face, thinking back to the early morning visit he had received.

"_Jane -_" He groaned, cursing the bandages on his arms preventing him from rubbing his temples in irritation._ "What the hell?"_

* * *

Morgan came up on Reid's apartment, pulling out the spare key that Pretty Boy had passed his way. He glanced at Emily, shrugged, and let himself right in.

They both stopped in the doorway.

"Hotch was right," Morgan finally found his voice. "She did crash here."

"Well, at least she isn't kidnapped again," Emily stated in almost-deadpan, trying and failing to keep the humor out of her voice.

Jane had collapsed on Reid's couch, just like Hotch had guessed. At some point she had freed her arms from Morgan's loaned sweater, and with her knees tucked up under the fabric and her head curled and hair a mess she… well, she looked more like a woolen tomato with a curly brown stalk than their intimidating, stoic doctor.

"Lets …" Morgan just sighed, out of his depth. "Just, grab her stuff. I'll get her."

And he scooped her up like a beach ball, following Prentiss out of the apartment.

* * *

Jane woke up to the movement of a car, tucked up under someone's arm.

She inhaled, smelled woodsmoke and musk, and a hint of sweat. Her ear was against a firm chest, the thumping of it familiar - if only usually felt through her fingers.

She counted. Measured.

Morgan. It was Morgan.

"Hey," He squeezed her gently, "You up?"

"Yeah," She slurred, allowing herself the indulgence of burrowing deeper into his warmth. "Where're we going?"

"To Rossi's," Morgan assured her. "Don't worry, we both know that us sending you back to the hospital would be useless, you damn hypocrite. Rossi's gonna put you up till you can get your apartment back."

"Who's driving?" She asked, not wanting to open her eyes.

"Emily is," Prentiss called from in front of them. "We both went to get you from Reid's - how did you even get it?"

"Lock picks."

LeFay's rumbling laugh bounced around his chest, and the comfort of it - the safety - sent Jane back under.


	25. 25

When Jane woke, it was to the sound of cooking.

At first she thought it was another dream, and she almost reached for her notebook … but it wasn't familiar. Not even in that distant, echo of a way.

She opened her eyes.

She was in Rossi's too-nice, too-big house – his too-big, too-nice living room. She'd refused any of his guest bedrooms, and had just curled up on one of his squashy couches to sleep, the night before.

Someone had removed her boots. And her jacket.

She lay there for a moment longer, twisting her torso to look at the ceiling, studying the distinct lack of water stains. As she became more aware, more sounds filtered in from Rossi's kitchen.

"- Spence is going to be out in a couple days," JJ was telling … _someone_. "Hotch is gonna need another week or two. And _Jane _…"

"Janey-dear broke out of the hospital a couple nights ago and is now sleeping on my couch," Rossi replied, tone sardonic. "That ship has sailed."

The sound of cooking continued. Plates clinked, food sizled.

She gauged the light – late morning or midday, she'd bet. Brunch, then.

"I'm just glad that after … well, after everything, that Strauss gave us some time off," JJ sighed. "I know that we were supposed to have some anyway – I even told Will, he was so excited – but …"

"But two of our own are in the hospital and the last is pretending to be asleep on my couch."

Jane sat up suddenly, glaring over the back of her temporary cot.

"Pretending nothing, Davey-dear," Jane threw back at him. "The fuck you cooking?"

"Brunch for the mere mortals," He replied, his back to her at the stove – JJ left staring wide-eyed at her. "Spaghett for the grumpy avatar of Hygeia."

"Good," She grumbled, spotting her boots and jacket at the end of the couch. "I hate brunch."

Then she paused, fingers stilling at her laces.

"Wait – did you just call me an _avatar _of the _goddess of cleanliness?"_

* * *

Jane visited Reid with a pile of books from the multi-volumed _Tax Fraud: A History_ to placate her fellow doctor. Spinner was unimpressed, but she could see his fingers twitching to open them anyway.

"What?" She finally asked after checking him over, fed up with getting the silent treatment. "I'm sorry for crashing in your apartment, okay?"

"You think _that's_ what this is about?" He snapped, disbelieving. "Wow, no. Jane, I wouldn't have cared if you _trashed _the place."

"Then what?" She threw her hands in the air. "What did I do?"

"You went missing," He growled, showing real anger and – and fear. "Jane, when we didn't know where you and Hotch were … when we found Hotch _dying_ and you were nowhere to be found – "

Her stomach sank. She swallowed roughly, clearing her throat through the rush of unfamiliar emotions, "I must've scared you."

She cleared her throat again.

"Okay, so what do I do?" She asked, pulling herself together - pushing the unwelcome emotions back. "What do I do to make it up to you? I'll do it."

A flash of mischief flit through the genius's eyes, and Jane realized she'd been played. Played with genuine emotion, yes, but still played like a fool.

"Morgan set you up to this?" She guessed, wincing at Spinner's blinding smile of a reply. "See if I do anything for you now."

"Too late, you're a woman of your word," Spinner grinned. "I want to know the story."

She blinked at him, thinking back on what he could've possibly meant - she came up empty.

"What story?"

"The story behind why you call me 'Spinner'," He replied, leaning forward on his hospital bed. "You never told me why."

Well, it wasn't as bad as it could've been. She thought he was going to demand less time off despite his damn leg – which wasn't going to happen, woman of her word or not.

"Do you remember – " She settled in the hospital chair more comfortably, thinking back. " – when we first met?"

"Yeah," Reid snorted, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "It was my first day as a BAU Agent, I was so nervous."

"You were, gosh – " Jane smirked " – You were maybe thirty pounds lighter, and dressed like a college professor. It was before Penny and Jayje intervened on fashion's behalf."

"I wasn't _that_ bad," He protested halfheartedly. (They both knew he was.)

"Anyway, the first time you met me I was having a very bad week," She continued the story, scoffing. "And I wasn't really having the whole 'we're bringing in a trouble magnet for you to take care of, don't let him die' thing that Jay had going on. So I planned to avoid you until I couldn't any longer."

"I forgot how distant you were back then," Spinner nodded, a frown tugging briefly at his lips. "You barely talked."

"You talked enough for both of us," She snorted, dismissing his melancholy. "That's why I call you 'Spinner'?"

"Wh- because I talk a lot?" Reid asked, disgruntled. "That's it?"

"Were you hoping for some dramatic backstory?" She shrugged. "Spinner, you have a way with words … you can take a moment, a topic, and just – _spin._"

She saw he still wasn't getting it.

"You …" She tugged at her ear. "You're a storyteller, Reid. A magician, a profiler. You take what you know – which isn't some small sum – and you _use_ it. And you spin situations to your advantage, people to your side. And sometimes, yeah, you spin yourself off topic, and have to pull yourself back – but it's all to your gain. You're a _spinner,_ and the fact that it's alphabetically similar to 'Spencer' is really just coincidence."

Spencer – _Spinner_ – just blinked at her in shock for a moment, face surprised.

Probably because the last time she talked that much … she didn't even know. And certainly not about 'feelings'.

Gah. She needed a shower.

"_Now,"_ Spinner blinked himself out of his stupor, finding his voice with a grin. "You're off the hook."

"Good," She exhaled, falling back into herself. "I hate talking."

* * *

Hotch was asleep when she got there.

She stared at him, tried to find the courage to do …

She didn't even know.

She checked his chart. Made some notes. Gathered her things.

She left him her mp3, set right on his bedside table.

She didn't know what else to do.

When she left the hospital, she was just about to –

She didn't even know.

She just started walking, continuing down the street through the dropping temperatures. She passed libraries and restaurants, stores and –

Oh. That was something.

* * *

"Hey, Baby Girl," Morgan finally gave up, calling. "I hate to ask you to do this -"

"Oh, that's a way to start a sentence, Chocolate Thunder," She replied over the line, and he put it on speaker phone for Rossi and Emily. "What can I do? If it has anything to do with -"

"_You're on speaker,"_ Emily swiftly nips that in the bud. "Hey, Garcia."

"Oh. Hi." Garcia lost her steam. "Emily. Hello."

"Sorry, Baby Girl," Morgan grimaced. "Wasn't thinking."

"Now there's a first," She regained her footing. "What's going on?"

"We can't find Jane, _again,"_ Rossi growled, ignoring Garcia's 'oh, hi Sir'. "She texted Morgan saying she was okay, and going out to clear her head, but she hasn't responded to any calls or texts since."

"Okay, I'm at my home computer," Garcia nodded, her sound shifting as she went to speaker. "But this is going to be less fast – and less legal – if we do it this the safe way."  
"That's fine, Baby Girl," Morgan sighed again, irritated that it came to this. "We just need to find her. Cover your tracks and we'll be fine."

"Ohhhh-kay," Garcia said after a minute. "Janey's at – oh."

"What is it?" Emily asked, exchanging glances. "Garcia, what is it?"

"Sorry, I just had to double check," She came back. "Jane's at the corner of – well, she's right where a very high end club is at. _The Final Whisper."_

Rossi closed his eyes, head tilted back as if in prayer. Fed up, in a word or two.

"It is never simple with her, is it?" Emily asked rhetorically, just as done. "Okay, looks like Morgan and I are going after our little Hippocratic Hypocrite."

* * *

She was drunk.

She was very very drunk.

_Finally._

Lu was next to her, writhing with the music – her hands and her drink in the air. Connie was all over her, one hand up the back of Lu's shirt and the other clasped around Jane's neck, foreheads together as they bounced to the beat of the DJ's mix.

Everything was melting away. After days and days and _days -_

Finally, with a shot or five of courage, she was okay.

Then someone grabbed her from behind.

She immediately whipped around, lashing out at the hand on her shoulder – nails coming down in a slash. She caught only a hint of fabric before clawing down someone's arm –

_LeFay's_ arm.

"Th' _fuck're_ yu doin'ere?" She slurred at him, holding out a hand before Lu went all 'Mama-Cop-Bear' on him. "You're sp'sed to be - be somewh're, n't '_ere."_

"You're drunk," Morgan spoke slowly, as if she was too drunk to hear or something. "You're coming home with me and Emily."

Oh, Emily was there. That was nice.

"Jane's not going _anywhere _with you," Lu cut in, taller and bigger than her – and therefore a lot more sober. "Back off."

Emily pulled her creds – right in the middle of the dance floor! – and nodded for LeFay to do the same. "We're her friends, and we just want her safe," Emily tried to placate.

Lu pulled the creds from LeFay's fingers, and Jane realized just how uninterested she was in with whatever they were saying when she saw how _pretty_ Prentiss looked.

"Emily!" She cried, throwing her arms around the taller woman's neck. "O'm'gsh, we should _dance._ An' _drink!"_

Emily just smiled, pulling Jane's arms off her neck and down to wrap around her waist.

"How about we go get Penny?" Emily offered, smile wide. "And then we can get Jayje, too – and have a girls night."

Jane was just beginning to think that over when Lu and Connie came up.

"Jane, you gotta go home," Lu frowned at her, stern. "Girl, you shoulda told us you were running from a serial killer."

"Nah," She shook her head forcefully against Emily's side, swiping a hand across her face. "Y'wouldn't've let m'come out."

Connie smiled, ruffling Jane's pony tail and she and Lu melted into the crowd, leaving Jane with her family.

"You need to stop running off," Morgan articulated clearly, nodding to the exit as Emily - bracing Jane against her side with firm hands - followed him. "You're gonna get _hurt._"

"Didn't git hur yet," She muttered, glad she was still wrapped around Emily.

"_Yet,"_ Emily stressed, her fingers spasming against her shoulder. "_Yet."_

* * *

Rossi rushed to the door when his bell went off, and he forced himself to slow to a walk once he reached the foyer.

He opened the door to an odd sight.

Jane was propped up between Emily and Morgan, each of her arms wrapped as far as they would go around their waists. She smiled up sunnily at him, an expression he had _never_ seen on her face, as her gaze wandered around to who-knows-where.

"Just how drunk is she?"

"Very," Emily smiled tightly, an arm around Jane's waist, fingers fisted in a silky maroon club top. "I will never allow her to live this down."

"I still can't believe she would do this – do this _again,"_ Morgan growled as Dave stepped aside for them to enter. "She said she wouldn't run off."

"Don't blame her completely," Rossi scolded gently, crouching to remove Jane's painful looking wedges. "Whatever happened before – whatever happened after she got out of Hotch's apartment – messed her up. And even though she can't remember it, she's still trying to _deal_ with it."

"So you're saying that her rash decisions –" Emily extricated herself from Jane's grip "– is just her way of trying to deal with what happened?"

"Most likely."

"Damn," Morgan shook his head, scooping a giggling Jane up in a fireman's carry and dropping her without fanfare back onto Rossi's couch. "You –" He pointed a finger at her, trying for stern and falling short. " – need better coping mechanisms."

She just kept giggling.

* * *

"I just got notified," Jane ended her phone call, gathering her satchel and the meager pile of clothes she had – sorting out the ones she borrowed from JJ. "My apartment is open for me again."

"Hold up a moment," Rossi stopped her. "You're not going back there."

Jane stopped and stared at him. "Rossi, it's my apartment. I _live _there."

"But it's not safe," He insisted, pressing. "You shouldn't go back to somewhere that Foyet knows you've been – and the security there is a nightmare."

"So you mean to tell me that after Aaron gets released that he's not going to go -" She cut herself off, rocking back. "This isn't your idea."

"No, I don't want you going back to that health and safety nightmare either," Rossi corrected her. "But no, I wasn't the driving force."

"Aaron's being paranoid," Jane sighed, dropping her satchel. "How bad is it?"

"He's always checking up on you," Dave relented, dropping into an armchair. "He's worried, Jane. He saw you in Foyet's grasp, and then you were gone for _hours._ He was terrified for you."

"I just –" She cut herself off, trying to find the words. "I don't need anybody."

"You mean: you've never _had_ anybody," The older man corrects gently. "You don't know how to deal with it, and that's okay. But it's _not _okay that you won't let us help you."

Jane relented.

"So where am I gonna _go?"_ Jane asked dryly, kicking at the pile of clothes on the ground. "Because Dave, I am _not_ staying with you till one of us kicks the bucket."

"Don't worry," He just smiled. "We'll figure something out."

* * *

"Morgan, what the hell are we doing here?" Jane cocked an eyebrow, gazing around one of his restored properties that he had dragged her to. It was an older craftsman, on the smaller side, and was perhaps a 20 mile drive from her old apartment - far enough away to be in one of the nicer neighborhoods. By a good margin.

Pretty, but she had no idea why she was here.

"Just come and see it," Morgan non-answered, nodding for her and Penny – who was attached to her arm like a limpet – to follow him in.

Spartanly decorated, reasonable floor plan. 2.5 baths and 3 bedrooms. Huge, but small. Tasteful.

Was Penny looking to buy or something?

She paused at the foyer, the 10-cent tour coming to a close. She tuned out Morgan's enthusiastic tale of his restoration of … _something_ and stopped to look at the state of the art security system installed in the wall.

Realization hit.

"You want me to move in here."

Morgan went silent and Penny – who still hadn't detached herself from Jane's side – picked up the slack.

"We're all worried, sweetums," The Technical Analyst tries to soothe her. "When we saw what kind of security your apartment had … well, we didn't like it."

She glared at them.

"I can get you a reasonable price, one that won't make you feel like it's charity," Morgan stepped in, cutting to the core of the issue. "This security system is the best on the market, and Hotch is getting the same installed in his apartment. You'll be safe here – we won't have to worry, and nor will you."

Jane sighed, looking at the honest concern in her colleagues' eyes.

She knew she lived in a shithole. God, she paid so little it was no wonder. But after so long working just to pay off her debt to Them –

Well, maybe she forgot that she could spend some money, here and there. She'd certainly accumulated enough.

"Fine, but no one but Penny and Rin know the codes," She acquiesced finally, ignoring Garcia's immediate squeal. "And so help me LeFay, if you lose money cuz you're selling to a friend I will _skin you."_

* * *

Jane was packing her things into three cardboard boxes.

Just three. Her life was the contents of three little boxes.

It was more than she expected. Before, she always thought of her things as the contents of her satchel and the clothes in her rucksack, and even that felt forigen.

Guess she'd accumulated more, over the last six years.

She was just dropping the last of Garcia's overcolored gifts into the final box when she heard the knocking at the door.

"You should've asked who it was," Aaron's first words came when she opened the door, frowning. "I could've been anyone."

"Like Foyet?" Jane deadpans, leaving the door open for him to follow. "I'm donating the rest of the furniture later today, so enjoy the squeaky-couch while it lasts."

She heard him sit down heavily – heralded by the creak of old metal – and left him to catch his breath with a trace of dignity as she folded the flaps of the boxes, trying to shove them into the overlapping state that she never could get right on the first try.

By the time she's got them all shut – resolving to buy tape next time – he's pulled himself together.

"You stopped visiting," He speaks softly, and Jane closed her eyes, cursing silently.

Damnnit, Rossi.

"They wouldn't let me," She got out, voice strangled. "I wanted to -"

"But they wouldn't let you," He repeated hollowly. "I just … I wanted to know you were safe."

"You could've called me," She deadpanned, pulling a sharpie from her satchel. "I always answer when you call."

The only sound in the apartment was the squeak of marker on cardboard.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Well, which is it, then?" She whipped around to face him, throwing the marker on the counter and crossing her arms. "Because honestly? You can't seem to make up your damn mind."

Goddamnnit he looked _taken aback. _The _asshole._

"Look, you big baby," She strode forward to jab a finger in his chest. "_You_ need to get over yourself."

He just blinked.

"This –" She waved her hand around her bare apartment " – is because of you. _You _said my apartment wasn't safe, _you_ said that I needed a new place. You said 'jump' and I said 'okay, Rin, how high you want that?' and played along because this is what _you_ needed. Not what I wanted."

"Foyet knows where you live –"

"Yeah, I know he does!" She exclaimed, crossing her arms again furiously. "And he's a computer genius. He's going to find me again, Aaron. He's probably got eyes on both of us 24/7 – but _you_ are _staying _in your apartment. I'm not. And that was because I _let_ you decide _for _me."

Hotch went silent and still.

"But the thing is," She took the harshness out of her voice. "Is that you seem to have forgotten that I deal with things best by ignoring them. I was just gonna live in the same apartment I got attacked in because I wasn't going to let it get me, just like you aren't letting Foyet get you. So the extra security measures? The sudden move? It's not making me 'not worry,' Aaron. It's making it so I can't _forget_ about it. And that's as good as worrying, for me."

"I'm sorry," He massaged his temples, eyes clenched shut. "But –"

"But I need the security measures," She supplies for him, relaxing her stance. "And that's why I'm playing along. I know I need them, just as much as you do. But I'm sorry, Aaron, you can't try and keep me from worrying - it's just gonna backfire."

"I know," He sighed, his jaw flexing. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," She mustered a smile for him. "Just – stop trying to keep things from me, okay?"

She reached out, the first time since he got hospitalized, and gripped his wrist in her hand. Counted his heartbeats.

And with a deep breath, he unclenched his free hand and rested two careful fingers on her wrist, right over her pulse point.

* * *

"He's not in yet."

Morgan paused in his path, backing up to Rossi's open door.

"What?"

"You've been walking past Hotch's office for an hour," Rossi twisted a pen between his fingers. "Jane's picking him up."

"Hotch told me she cleared him to drive," Morgan stepped into the office further.

"She did," Rossi nodded. "Jane wanted to do it."

Morgan tried to keep his jaw from tensing at that, but he saw Rossi's eyes go straight to his chin. After his twitch, Dave clearly geared up into profiling mode. "What's going on?"

No use beating around the bush, apparently. Derek crossed to a chair, sitting down for the long talk that was inevitably going to happen.

"He's only had a month off, Rossi."

"Technically, 34 days," The older profiler tilted an eyebrow.

"And you think that's long enough?"

"You don't? Tell him."

Morgan snorted, holding up his hands in surrender.

"No, thanks, I like my job." He shook his head.

"You like him more," Rossi pointed out.

The office went silent.

"I think the number of days isn't what's really on your mind," Rossi told him, sharp as ever. "What's really going on?"

"It's -" Derek tried to find the right words. "Almost everything is expected. He's gone hypervigilant, he's pretending everything is normal – hell, the only reason I think he got past his evaluations is because we _wrote_ those questions. But him and Jane …"

"You're worried about, what, a budding romance?" Dave joked.

"No, I'm worried about codependency – or just plain dependency," Morgan grit his jaw. "Jane visits all the time, and Hotch calls in to check on her four or five times a day. When he's not profiling Foyet, he's hovering around her."

"They went through a traumatic experience together," Rossi sat forward. "And even if Jane doesn't remember most of it, Hotch does. Haley and Jack are gone – he can't help them – but he _does_ have Jane."

"And, what, we let this go on?" Morgan asked, _really_ asked. "Because if one of them gets threatened in the field again – if _Jane_ gets threatened – then how is he gonna react?"

Rossi didn't have an answer for him.

* * *

"Thanks," Reid smiled at Garcia, settling into one of her spare office chairs.

"Does it hurt?"

"It only really hurts when I think about it – which is pretty much all the time," He joked. "But Jane says that if I keep off of it, I'll be switching these bad boys – " He gestured to his crutches " – out for a cane in no time."

"How is she?" Garcia asked, batting his hands away from a box of very delicious looking cookies, passing him a sucker instead. "Like, really, how is she?"

"Confused," He found the right word after a moment, sticking the cherry candy into his mouth. "Hotch was there, getting stabbed, as she was drugged on the floor. She only has memories of her apartment being broken into, and he has three days worth of worry and overall trauma."

"So she doesn't get why he's so freaked out?" Garcia asked, shuffling her babules nervously. "So _protective_. I mean, he basically _made _her move."

Reid gives her a look, betraying how much he knew about her involvement with that whole thing. She primmly ignores it.

"No, she gets it," He shook his head, dismissing the thought. "But she doesn't get how it's manifesting."

"Manifesting ho-"

"Spence, there you are," JJ interrupted them. "Grab your go bag."

* * *

Aaron was just clipping his gun to his belt when he heard a knock.

Half an ear on the news from Louisville, he made his way to the door, checking the peephole before letting out a sigh of relief.

"Jane," He greeted his friend with a small smile she returned. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," She stepped in, scanning his place. "You ready to go?"

"I will be," He double checked his go bag. "You made it here alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Her cheeks twitched into a smile. She held out her hand.

Something loosened in him, familiar habits.

He extended his wrist, and her fingers found his pulse point. And once she got settled … pushing the part of him that was embarrassed aside, he brought over his second hand to feel for her pulse as well, steadying himself against her increasingly-familiar beat.

He counted beats before she finished, but didn't have the experience to put them into context. It steadied him all the same.

She smiled at him, a little longer. He gathered his things. She crossed the room to punch in his code, glancing over her shoulder at him just before she hit 'enter.'

"Ready," He confirmed, shoulders back.

And they walked out the door.

* * *

Jane was crouched over the blood pool of the first victim, the stock boy, when she heard Hotch get agitated.

"And when were you gonna tell us this?" Hotch snaps at the pharmacist. "He's armed, he's delusional – who's his doctor?"

Jane stood up quickly, making her way around the bloodstains to where the Unit Chief was staring down a flustered and upset woman.

She tugged up her sleeve and slipped her wrist into Hotch's hand, his fingers curling around it in an automatic reflex. She saw him take a steadying breath.

"Great," He breathed in – cutting over the pharmacist – and then out again. "Great."

Then he released her wrist, pulling out his phone and walking away – Morgan following after, leaving her with the confused pharmacist to reassure.

* * *

"A minivan was stolen one block from here," Lieutenant Mitchell came up to them. "Call's never driven in his life – you think he's still not running from us?"

"Which way?" Rossi asked instead of answering.

"Eastbound. I got roadblocks set up everywhere." Mitchell frown deepened. "He's not getting out of this county."

"You're wasting your time," Hotch declared, standing stock still as they walked away.

"He's outnumbered," Mitchell spread his hands, fed up. "You think he's gonna just disappear?"

"I think he took the boy for a reason," Hotch pressed.

"I don't care why he took him," Mitchell came back at him.

"You should," Hotch stepped up to meet him. "Call's memory is no longer suppressed, he's reinventing his past." Jane's face flashed in his mind's eye. "He's reinventing his past, and unless we understand how – we're not gonna find either of them."

"Well, I'm not gonna just sit around and speculate."

"Then don't."

Rossi backed him up, even though Hotch could see he didn't agree. Mitchell walked away.

"There's a kid missing," Emily lowered her voice, approaching him.

"They don't need the extra manpower," Hotch defended himself, scanning the crowd for Jane – she was next to Morgan, and her gun was on her belt.

"Since when?"

"If we'd studied Foyet's initial crimes, we would have known that a survivor didn't make sense," Hotch insisted.

"What does he have to do with this?" Emily asked, voice practiced and patient.

"All we had to do was stop and look at Foyet's history, and we didn't," He lamented. "And we lost two couples and a bus full of people. And I'm not making that mistake again."

He walked back toward their SUVs, but not before he checked that Jane was still with Morgan, still safe.

* * *

"You ran into that building."

Hotch tensed, then relaxed as Jane stepped into his office. His fingers itched to feel her pulse, to have proof that she was fine, but he held back.

_(Oh, so _that's _how Jane always felt.)_

"I saved that kid."

"Yeah, and put yourself at risk," Jane shook her head, hands flexing against her biceps. "You – _we_ – need to stop this."

"Stop what?" He dared to ask, not able to look at her.

"You're picking up my mannerisms," Jane states bluntly, fingers digging into her arms. "You're checking pulses, being hypervigilant with location and health, reckless with yourself, overly cautious with others, distrustful and dismissive of all not within your inner circle – and it's all centered around me."

"Jane -"

"So we're going to have to stop," She cuts him off, forcing the both of them into eye contact. "Because Morgan being a little distrustful is the least of our worries. Because my coping mechanisms are unhealthy and the only reason they've never gotten in the way of my work is because I developed them _with_ my work. You have had no such luxury, and it's screwing us over."

Hotch knew she was right.

"So, what?" He asked, dread twisting his stomach. "I stop taking your pulse, you stop letting me?"

"So, I stop coming around for dinner," She stated shakily, before firming up. "Morgan's concerned about codependency, I don't have to be a profiler to know that. Hotch, we're _inseparable_, and at some point that is going to affect both of our judgements."

"So we distance ourselves," He concludes hollowly. "I develop healthier habits, and you stop letting me depend on you."

"Yeah," She replied, just as hollowly. "Yeah."

She left his office.

The sound of the door shutting behind her echoed like a cannon shot.

* * *

"He's going to end up like me."

Rossi paused as he exited his office, turning to see Jane sat beside his doorway – sitting in the dark hallway and twisting a bright pink bowler hat between her fingers.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," He goes with, forcing his protesting knees to lower himself next to her.

"It is if you really know what I'm like, what I'm _really _like," Jane counters dryly, eyes locked on the fluorescent felt. "I scare myself sometimes. When I realize just how much I'm like the people you chase."

"_We_ chase," He corrects. "And I scare myself sometimes, too."

They sit in silence. The janitor passes by to empty the bullpen's trash bins.

"I think you did the right thing," Rossi finally says. "You don't think so, but Hotch knows it's right, too. You can't afford to hurt the team, or each other."

"I know it was right," Jane thumps her head back against the wall. "But why does it still feel wrong?"

"Because you love him," Rossi states bluntly, quirking a smile at the face she pulled. "Platonically or not, you love him. And it's hard to let go of the people you love."

"If you tell me to 'let him go' if I love him," Jane warns, a note of warning creeping into her voice. "Then maybe I should give you a reason to use a couple weeks worth of those sick days you've accumulated."

"No need to get aggressive," He defended lightly, pushing himself off the floor. "But Jane."

He waited until she reluctantly made eye-contact with him.

"It's going to be okay."

"I know," Jane sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I know."


	26. 26

She held the phone between her palms, pressing her hands together and lacing her fingers. She knew that she shouldn't call … but it'd been too long, and the move scared her.

Scared her too much, really.

She hit call.

"_Dr. Hart,"_ The voice on the other end answered, and she felt something unravel in her at the casual tone. She was fine, then.

"You don't call, you don't write," She quips wryly, eyeing the house from down the street as she straddled her motor. "Why, I would almost think you were trying to get rid of me."

"_You know, Vine, communication is a two way street,"_ Jane quips back, and neither of them care to disguise the chuckle in their voices. "_What wind blew you hither?"_

"Had some business to take care of," She doesn't-answer, kicking up her stand. "And I can't talk long. Your old place has an old vet up to his ears in smack – new boyfriend?"

"_Hell no," _Jane answered dryly. She could see the doc gathering her satchel through her window. "_New digs. You should come by some time."_

"Send me the address," Her finger hovers over her phone. "And we'll see."

She ends the call, revving her engine.

She drives away, leaving the smell of exhaust and a hint of lotus perfume in her wake.

* * *

"Jane, come with me – right now."

Jane looked up at JJ, the blonde only poking into her office long enough to summon her before striding purposefully towards Hotch's office.

Shit.

She dropped her pen and grabbed her satchel, mind racing, as she followed JJ – only falling short to linger in Hotch's doorway.

"Guys," JJ stressed, catching Hotch's attention. "_Foyet's meds _– we've been tracking the entire combination. What if he's been using over-the-counter meds for some of it, to mask his purchases?"

"_Shit,"_ Jane breathed, the air knocked out of her. "I never thought to - _shit."_

All those years in fucking med school and she _missed it._

"Jane," Hotch gritted out, clearly agitated – attention on her completely. "Jane, what do you know?"

"I know that I'm not a fucking pharmacist and never fucking thought about it that way and I'm a fucking _idiot,"_ She growled, whipping out her steno pad and rapid fire writing the list of all of Foyet's meds from memory; then she started crossing out all the ones that could be subbed by over the counter stuff, at least easily.

"I'll go give this to Garcia," She spared them a glance, still writing. "She can start narrowing it down."

As she walked away she felt Anderson pass her in the hall – headed to Hotch's office with more news.

_Not Naproxen, not Ultram, not —_

* * *

"Agent Jareau, do you think that it was the fault of Dr. Hart that finding George Foyet took so much time?" Strauss asked, sitting regally across from JJ with the tape recorder running between them. "After all, as the team's doctor it was Dr. Hart's responsibility to be your resident expert on medical matters."

"No, I do not," JJ replied calmly, clearly. "Dr. Hart is trained as a medical examiner, crime scene investigator, trauma surgeon, and field medic. Her focus has always been on in the moment situations, and had no reason to approach the Reaper case from the perspective of substituting his medications."

"Do you think that Agent Hotchner shared this same view?" Strauss pressed, and JJ had to clench her fists under the table to stop herself from doing something rash. "Was he … _agitated _by Dr. Hart's lapse."

"He was understandably frustrated," JJ allowed. "But he didn't bring it out on Jane. He knew it wasn't her fault, that it wasn't her focus."

"So you're saying that the betrayal of trust from one of Agent Hotchner's closest friends and most relied upon colleagues did not affect Agent Hotchner at all? That it had nothing to do with the resolution of this case?"

"No," JJ swallowed roughly. "No, it did not."

* * *

"Penny, we need you to –" Jane burst into her office, then stopped to stare. "Lynch, is that a fucking _bacon donut?"_

"Yes! You should try it sometime!" He grinned, Vana White-ing the disgusting thing.

Jane shook her head, and Penelope honestly couldn't blame her.

"Yes?" She prompted her lovely doctor.

"We found a lead to track Foyet," Jane dropped a bomb. "We need to track him by the medications that cannot be substituted over the counter. I've compiled a preliminary –"

"Kevin, you need to leave right now," Hotch burst in, cutting Jane off and startling Kevin out of his chair.

"Is this about Foyet?" Garcia asked him, standing up instantly at the sharpness in her boss' voice.

"The Foyet letters came from Fredericksburg, Virginia and Westminster, Maryland," Hotch drives through. "We can match the prescription drugs Foyet can't substitute with a geographic profile of the two cities."

"She's got my list," Jane tears off a sheet from her notebook swiftly, passing it over.

"We need to hurry," Hotch presses, still driving forward. "Foyet doesn't stay in one place very long."

* * *

"He is creepy good," Garcia told them, grim but determined.

"How good?" Reid immediately asked, fingers gripping his cane.

The team was in the apartment of Peter Rhea, one of the Reaper's aliases, and they were staring down a laptop actively purging it's harddrive. Morgan didn't want to waste any more time standing around and waiting, but there was nothing they could do until Garcia got what they needed.

"He wiped his hard drive," Garcia reported. "Might've been in a hurry to leave, but whatever was on there he did _not_ want us to see it."

"Garcia, tell me that you're hacked in and that you can rebuild it," Morgan half pleaded.

"Watch me work, darling," She shot back, and as she worked the sounds from her computer and the rhythm of fingers flying over keys came through the line. A notification sound. "Hel_-lo."_

"What have you got?" Hotch asked swiftly, Jane asking the same question only a half second behind

"He had an internet alarm on the name Peter Rhea," She replied. "It alerted him as soon as we ran a check on it."

"What else did he wipe?"

The laptop screen showed a number of pictures, flipped through too quickly to really see but –

"Garcia, wait a minute," Morgan stopped her, dread building in his gut. "Freeze it right there. This one and the next."

The screen split, one side showing a picture of Sam Kassmeyer, the marshall assigned to Haley and Jack – and the other showed Jane, getting out of her car at her new house.

Jane stared at the screen, fingers gripping her satchel's strap.  
"Well shit."

* * *

"You left for Marshall Kassmeyer's house immediately? Even after you had discovered the possible threat against Dr. Hart?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Reid responded politely, keeping his leg from bouncing. "Threats had been made against both Dr. Hart and Agent Hotchner in the past in similar veins. The priority was Marshall Kassmeyer, someone we didn't know the location and status of, over the redundant protection of Dr. Hart and Agent Hotchner."

"So, then, you stormed his house," Strauss moved on unhappily. "Wouldn't this be a job for a tactical team?"

* * *

Jane went straight to the marshall on the ground, tearing her bag open and immediately stabilizing him.

As best as she could, at least.

At this point … there wasn't much she could do.

She was rapidly wrapping his hand, staunching the flow from his missing fingers, when the EMTs came in. The three of them worked in tandem, and Jane forced herself to ignore what Hotch and Kassmeyer were saying – or trying to say – as they put pressure on his bullet wounds.

By the time they had loaded into the ambulance, Hotch clambering in beside them, she knew that Kassmeyer wasn't going to make it to the hospital.

Only a few minutes later, he flatlined.

* * *

"Agent Prentiss," Strauss dramatically greeted her, dropping a file noisily on the table.

"Ma'am," Emily deadpanned back, trying and failing to keep just how _done_ she was out of her voice. At least it covered up how anxious she was.

"We understand that Agent Hotchner managed to separate himself from the rest of the team," Strauss tilted her head, judgement across her face.

"He didn't 'manage' to do anything," Emily frowned, forcing herself not to pick at her fingernails even more. "And anyway, Jane was with him. When Marshal Kassmeyer was in the ambulance –"

"Agent Hotchner volunteered to ride along," Strauss cut her off, unimpressed. "Even though Dr. Hart was already riding along."

"Dr. Hart is a _doctor,"_ Emily reminded the Section Chief, a tad forcefully. "She was there to do nothing more or less than _treat _Sam – Marshall Kassmeyer. Agent Hotchner was there to get answers before he lost consciousness."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"As you said, Dr. Hart was already there."

* * *

"Aaron –"

Hotch watched as the car Anderson sent pulled up, and he got ready to climb into the driver's seat. Jane had a firm grip on his arm.

"_Aaron. _Let me drive."

He didn't argue – too busy hanging up on Emily and calling Foyet.

He climbed in. Jane glanced at the coordinates that Garcia sent them and started off, pushing the speed limit.

"_Agent Hotchner."_

"If you touch her–" Hotch threatened The Reaper, almost growling.

"_Be gentle, like I was with you?"_ Foyet mocked him. "_What the hell took you so long? I was beginning to think this phone was dead or something."_

Hotch didn't answer. Jane made a sharp right turn, barely slowing.

"_Why so quiet? You usually lash out when you're frustrated."_

"I'm not frustrated," Hotch lied. "You're more predictable than you think."

* * *

Jane saw the moment that Foyet hung up on them.

"Where?" She asked, soft and firm.

"My old house," Was his reply.

* * *

The phone rang again.

"Foyet," He answered on the first ring, grateful that Jane was the one driving.

"_Aaron?" _Haley's voice came from the other side. "_You're okay?"_

He felt himself shatter.

"I'm fine," He squeezed his eyes shut.

"_But he said that –" _Haley realized. "_Oh, Aaron."_

"He can hear us, right?"

"_Yes,"_ She replied, voice thick. "_I am so sorry."_

"Haley, show him no weakness. No fear."

"_I know, Sam told me all about him," _He heard her gulp. "_Is he, uh – "_

"No, Sam's fine," Hotch lied, forcing his eyes open.

"_Aaron, Aaron, Aaron,"_ Foyet chimed in. "_Is this why your marriage broke up? Because you're a liar? Huh, I thought it was because of that pretty little doctor of yours."_

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron saw Jane rip an earpiece out of her ear and drop it in her lap. Then she suddenly reached over and pulled the phone right out of his hand.

"Haley, he's trying to terrify you," She was saying before he could – could do _anything._ "Sam is dead. And I'm sorry about that. But what he's doing is trying to get you to blame Aaron. The more you blame Aaron – the more distracted you are – the less able the two of you are to protect Jack. Focus, we need to _protect Jack."_

Jane passed the phone back to him. He scrambled to put it to his ear.

"_Oh, she's a spitfire,"_ Foyet was laughing. "_Much better than your first wife. But … you haven't made an honest woman out of her yet, have you Aaron?"_

"Haley," He found his voice, eyes on the speedometer's creeping hand. "Tell Jack I need him working the case."

"_What?"_

"Tell Jack I need him working the case," Hotch insisted.

And his son's voice came through the phone's speaker, and Hotch felt like he was going to fall apart all over again.

* * *

"_Promise me that you will tell him how we met,"_ Haley was pleading with Hotch, and Jane felt like an interloper – she tried to focus on hurtling down the street without killing anyone on the way rather than listen to the sounds of Hotch's last moment with his wife. "_And how you used to make me laugh."_

"Haley –"

"_He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron,"_ Haley presses on. "_I want him to believe in love, because it's the most important thing. But you need to show him."_

Hotch bowed his head.

"_And if you're with Jane, that's okay,"_ Jane swallowed roughly at her own name, forcing back the mess of emotions that that simple sentence had brought up. "_That's okay. You two take care of each other, and you take care of him. Promise me."_

_I promise._

"I promise."

_Bam. _

_Bam. _

_Bam._

* * *

Strauss shuffled her papers, clearing her throat. Jane wished, not for the first time, that it would be appropriate to pass the Section Chief a face mask or a cough drop or _something._

"On the phone call placed by Haley Hotchner on Marshall Kassmeyer's phone to Agent Hotchner, George Foyet implied that you and Agent Hotchner were in a relationship."

"Yes, he did," Jane kept her breathing steady. She counted her own heartbeats.

"Are you in a relationship with Agent Hotchner?" Strauss asked, after it was clear that Jane wasn't going to elaborate without prompting.

"No, I am not."

"Then why would Foyet imply that you were?" Strauss pressed, still clearly not satisfied.

"Foyet's intention was to turn Haley against Agent Hotchner, as a final act of torture for the both of them," Jane finally forced herself to speak, attention still on her own pulse. "Agent Hotchner and I have been close friends since I started here six years ago, and Foyet saw our friendship as a way to manipulate Haley. Agent Hotchner and I have not been intimate together, and Foyet knew this after his extensive surveillance and research on both Hotch and I."

"Well then," Strauss seemed satisfied by her answer, for now at least. "After the … after the death of Haley Hotchner, what series of events followed."

"We pulled up into the driveway of Hotch's old house," Jane swallowed, clearing her throat and thinking back. "Hotch was out before the car was even in park. I grabbed my satchel and was right behind him."

"What was the plan?" Strauss asked, glancing at one of the bureaucrats in the room. "Did you just run in there half-cocked?"

"The plan was for me to get to Haley as soon as possible to assess her condition," She refused to rise to the bait. "The plan was for Hotch to clear the house room by room until he found Foyet, while I helped until I found Haley. If Haley was dead, then I was to get Jack and run."

"And what did happen?"

"The ground floor was clear," She recounted, hands gripping the strap of her satchel in her lap. "Haley was on the second floor, in their bedroom. She was dead. Shot three times: neck, stomach, stomach."

Strauss looked sick. _Good,_ because Jane didn't want _anyone_ treating this shit show as fucking pedestrian.

"And then?"

"Shots were fired," Jane grit her teeth. "I immediately left to go to Hotch's office. My priority was Jack."

"You left Agent Hotchner to deal with a suspect on his own?" Struass asked, disbelieving. "That was irresponsible."

"Chief Strauss, I am not a field agent," Jane sat up, leaning towards the older woman with her teeth bared. "I am not even an _agent. _I'm a _doctor, _and with one dead Hotchner already it was my _utmost_ priority to keep there from being another. Hotch would've willingly died for his son, the _least_ I could've done was get Jack out of there."

Strauss sat back.

"And this code, the one that Agent Hotchner and his son had – about 'working the case'?" Strauss asked, clearing her throat yet again. "How did you know the significance of it?"

"Hotch loves his son, and was my best friend," Jane smirked, leaning back. "How do you think? The man gushes like a geyser."

The Section Chief's eyes sharpened, narrowing.

"Was?"

Jane felt her smirk slip off her face.

* * *

"Jack," Jane hissed, gun in one hand – glancing between the door and the bench-thing. "_Jack!"_

She threw open the lid one handedly, gun pointed at the door.

"Hey, Jack," She tried for a smile, hoping not to scare Aaron's son. "I'm a friend of your Dad's. Do you think you can come with me?"

He nodded, and with her gun still at the door she scooped him up, curling herself around him as she listened at the hall.

She heard them tumble down the stairs. So the front and back doors were out. But –

_The roof._

She slipped through the hall to Hotch's bedroom, whispering for Jack to stay quiet and close his eyes. She stepped over Haley's corpse, getting to the floor to ceiling windows that she saw earlier.

She holstered her gun, prying them open. A small ledge, then a drop to the ground. Ten feet, maybe more.

"Jack," She pressed a hand to the back of his head, keeping his line of sight into her shoulder. "Jack, I need you to trust me. Can you trust me?"

He nodded into her.

"Hold me tight, okay?" She asked him, adjusting her grip. "Hold me tight. Big bear hug, _big_ bear hug. Good."

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.  
"I need you to keep your eyes shut, no matter how scary – okay?" She insisted, putting one foot out onto the ledge. "No matter how scary."

And she jumped.

* * *

'_Well,'_ Jane thought as she strapped her best friend's son into the front seat of the car she hijacked. '_At least today we learn that I know how to hotwire a car.'_

She pulled out quickly, praying that Hotch had Foyet under control, and sped off. Block after block passed by, and she was just grateful that the Toyota she stole was an automatic so she could at least partially ignore the throbbing in her ankle.

Her phone rang.

"Jack?" She smiled tensely at the little boy next to her. "Hey, Little Bear. Can you reach into my bag and take out my phone for me?"

He quietly nodded, reaching into an outside pocket and digging around. It took a moment, but he found it, and passed it her way.

"Who is this?" Jane demands.

"_Jane, Jane it's Hotch,"_ Aaron's voice is coming through, and Jane thinks that she'll just collapse back in relief. She keeps driving.

"Rin," She breathes. "Is Foyet after us? Is he still coming?"

"_No, no – no, he's not," _He's assuring her, and she immediately pulls over. "_He's – he's dead, Jane."_

"Good," She says, smiling down at Jack. "I have Jack with me. Little Bear and I are safe."

"_Little Bear?" _Hotch repeated, amused. "_That's new."_

"Oh, I said that out loud, didn't I?" Jane smiled awkwardly, glancing down at Jack. "Well, buddy-boy here gives the best bear hugs – and after you going all Papa-Bear on the … _meanie _that broke into your house, I think that the name's well deserved."

Jack smiled, delighted by what he heard of the conversation; Jane grinned right back.

"_Indeed it does."_

A brief lull, one full of relief.

"I stole a car," Jane decided to just come out and say it. "See if you can't spin that so it _doesn't_ sound like I'm a criminal. I'm headed back now."

"_You stole a – nevermind, thank you,"_ Hotch's voice sounds thick. "_Thank you."_

* * *

Jane was rewrapping her ankle when he stepped into her office.

Her face was focused, clinical. She was solely focused on the precise laying of the bandages, and she only noticed him after she had carefully taped the end down.

"Hey," He finally managed to say.

"Hey," She repeated, looking tired.

He supposed they both did.

He wasn't in a suit, today. Just a pair of jeans and a set of sneakers, with a tee-shirt that Haley bought him at a concert when …

Well, he wasn't himself. Didn't feel like himself.

"How's the Little Bear?" She broke the silence.

"He's … he's confused," He answered, lingering in the doorway. "Glad to see me …"

Silence. Jane knew the rest.

"He's with his aunt, right now," He finished awkwardly.

He could see her scars, today. The ones that Foyet gave her. Her makeup was faded, washed off after a too long week. Or maybe she hadn't put as much on as she usually did – usually you couldn't even see the three long lines.

"I don't think I'm going to wear so much foundation, anymore," Jane guessed where his mind had gone, fingers ghosting over her cheek. "I wore it … I wore it before because it was a too-constant reminder that we hadn't stopped him. But now … it feels _wrong,_ to try and hide the damage."

"And what about all the stares you'll get?" Hotch couldn't help but ask. "You hide your scars all the time. What makes these any different?"

"Because I remember who gave me these," She answered, facing him head on. "And we beat him. _That's_ what these scars are, Aaron. A reminder that we _beat _him."

Silence.

"It still bothers you."

"Yes," He dropped his gaze, tearing his eyes from her skin. "But … but it's your body. Your defiance. Just … just don't let his actions define you."

"Don't let his actions define _you,"_ She countered harshly, sharply.

Silence.

She sighed, deflating.

"I think that the distance we had, that it was good for us," Jane switches topics abruptly. "And I think we still need a stopgap. But … but I can't leave you alone right now, not when you need me most."

Thank god.

"Yeah, okay," He smiled, inside a turmoil of emotions. "Jack should get to know you, anyway. He keeps talking about my 'nice friend' who jumped out of a window for him."

"Yeah, and busted my ankle for it," Jane smiled minutely, gesturing to her hobble. "But I'd do it again."

He stepped into her office, then. Sat down across from her, just breathed.

And she reached out slowly, fingers curling around his wrist.

They sat there together, falling back on old patterns, and Aaron could almost pretend that the world had gone back to normal.

But it wasn't, because they were too close and their legs were touching and his eyes were on her lips and –

He tears his hand away. Suddenly guilty and disgusted and he's standing and he has too much energy and Haley –

""I can't – I'm sorry, I just … I just can't."

* * *

Hotch was distraught, and Jane cursed herself for … just cursed herself.

It was too much. Too soon.

She swallowed back her emotions, nodding. "Yeah, I know. I know, I'm sorry. She was your wife."

"I loved her," Hotch finally spoke, and Jane curses herself for wincing at his admitting it. "I loved her, and now she's gone."

"I know. I know."

"And now I'm just left with Jack and Strauss offered me retirement and …"

"I didn't know that," Jane swallowed. "I … Are you going to take it."

"I don't know," Aaron buried his face in his hands, scrubbing at his face. "I just …"

They stew in silence.

"I loved Haley," He repeats, hunched over. "But I love you too."

Her breath catches.

"And I don't know how much, or in what way, yet," He admits, refusing to meet her eyes. "And I know that … that there's something here. Somewhere."

"But your wife just died," Jane nods, tearing her eyes away. "And I'm a broken mess, just like you are."

"No, Jane, you're not –"

She cuts him off with a look. His voice dies in his throat.

"Hotch – Rin …" She finds her voice. Tries to find the words. "I … Rin, I know that you can't."

Can't love me. Can't do this. Can't talk about this. Can't figure this out. Can't leave Jack. Can't betray Haley –

"I know that you can't," She repeats, firming her voice. "And that's so beyond understandable. It's okay, I get it."

They can't look at each other.

"I loved her …" He repeats.

She doesn't know when he started crying, doesn't think that he does either. But all she knows is that suddenly his arms are around her and his head is in the crook of her neck and she's hushing him, cursing her lack of … everything.

They stay there until he's stopped crying, and as his sobs come to a close they're on the ground and she's half perched in his lap and there's nothing remotely romantic about the way her fingers are threaded through his hair or how his hands are on his waist. They just are.

And Jane curses how she has to savor this little bit of closeness, because she can never do this again. Never have this again.

Aaron Hotchner was her friend and her boss and he could never be anything more.

Especially not when the scars on her face reminded him every day of the man who killed his wife – the woman he loved.

(She didn't deserve a man like him anyway.)

* * *

A letter and a black lotus were on her front porch.

Really, just what she needed after a day like this.

She forced herself to read it.

It was a polaroid picture of her, a few days ago when she was limping down the street with Jack in her arms.

'You always were mother material.'

She growled, pulling a lighter from her bag, and set fire to them both – tossing them aside into a puddle once they were scraps.

Then she took extra time, burning each and every petal of the lotus all the way through before crushing the cinders under her boot.


	27. 27

All of her breath got knocked out of her in an instant.

She's immediately on the defensive, eyes blown wide and fists coming up to cover her face – or, at least she tries to but her arms are held back and —

Bleary eyes land on mischievous blue, and she throws her head back into the couch cushion in defeat.

"_AaAaroN_," She yells, ignoring the giggling ball of chaos bouncing on her sternum and warbling her voice. "We're going on a _bear hunt!"_

The giggling intensifies, and tiny hands pull at the arm she'd freed and slung across her eyes.

"Shhhhhhhh," Jack loudly shushes her, a hand pressed to her lips. "Dad's _sleeping."_

"So was _I,_ Little Bear," She _doesn't_ growl, thank you very much. Mostly doesn't. Gah.

"But you were on the _couch,"_ The blonde menace insists with the surety of a little kid. "So I could wake you."

Groaning, she scoops Jack up and throws him over her shoulder – still _giggling_ – and picks her way through Aaron's apartment till she reaches his bedroom door. She doesn't hesitate before throwing the door open, her only concession being not slamming it _too _loudly.

Hotch – sweet, lovely, _resting _Hotch – is sprawled face down across his bed, legs tangled in the covers and glorious back bare as anything.

And rather than taking the time to admire the view and therefore behave like the people they hunt, she lifted Jack from her shoulder and dropped him _right_ on Aaron's back.

He startles awake, sputtering, and Jane cackles as she goes to get herself breakfast.

* * *

"That was unnecessary," Aaron grumbles as he sets Jack in his chair a few minutes later, the both of them dressed for the day. "You could've given me another half hour, at least."

"And deprive you of the fatherly experience?" She shoots back, a spatula digging around the food processor – meticulously getting the last of her fresh acuka off the edges. "Stop whining and make sure I didn't burn the bagels."

He moves to comply, and she scrapes the last of the acuka into a tupperware that she honestly did not know the origin of. Aaron probably stole it from Penny, or something. She couldn't picture him just _buying_ tupperware. It'd be like Strauss buying crayons, strange and unnatural.

"Acuka?" Hotch deadpans, watching as she spreads it liberally across a poppy seed bagel. "For _breakfast."_

"Hush from the peanut gallery," She snaps back with a mischievous grin, plopping a bagel in front of Jack for him to demolish. "And acuka is good at any time. Every time. All the time."

"You are one odd woman," Hotch tilts an eyebrow at her, reaching around her to grab a fork –

Their eyes are locked, their breath mingles. Time freezes.

He quickly pulls away. She turns back to pop the lid onto the walnut spread.

"When's Jessica coming over?" She makes conversation stiltedly. "We'll need to head out soon if we want to keep Morgan from stealing his title back."

"Soon," Hotch shoots a glance at the clock. "Another half hour, tops."

"Dad? Jane?" Jack interrupts them, eyes on full puppy-dog. "Can I pick?"

They exchange glances, and Aaron tilts his head in a 'your choice' kind of concession. Jane's lips twitch.

"Sure, Little Bear," She shrugs, nodding to where her go bag was sitting next to Hotch's couch. "Go pick."

She turns to Hotch as Jack scrambles off his chair towards the couch, rolling her eyes and pulling back her hair. "So we have a case?"

"JJ said she wanted to pitch one to us," Hotch answers, sitting down next to Jack's abandoned seat and crunching into his bagel. "But otherwise nothing immediately pressing."

"Well, that's good at least," She frowns, licking a bit of acuka off the side of her palm. "But you don't sound so good with it all."

He shrugs, eyes wandering to her face. To her cheek.

To her scars.

She levels the spatula at him.

"Rin, if you tell me you're restless because you're not throwing every second of your waking time into hunting down Foyet, I'm shoving acuka up your nose."

He winces, and is about to reply when Jack pops back up with a sweater held proudly in his hands up for her to take.

"Purple today!" He exclaims, clambering up back on his chair and digging into his bagel.

"Purple it is," She smiles at him, tugging it on. "Good choice, buddy."

"You should stay here all the time!" Jack insists through a cheekful of bagel and butter. "So I can pick every day!"

Jane stiffens, and forces herself to keep her smile on her face – and not to look at Hotch. "Well, buddy, I can't."

"Why not?" Jack asks, all innocently, and goddamnit how is she supposed to answer that –

A knock at the door, followed by the sound of the door swinging open and a called greeting.

Oh thank god. Saved by the Jessica.

* * *

"So I'm going to snoop through dead kids' computers?" Garcia summarizes, and Hotch can see her discomfort – but it was necessary. They needed to investigate these suicides fully, and that involved some discomfort on their part.

"This plane seldom makes pleasure trips," Rossi quips darkly.

"We've all been over the files," Hotch redirects. "Let's talk about victimology."

"Ok," Rossi parses through his file. "All 4 kids were decent students; from different neighboring towns but the same school and the same county."

"Active in sports and community," Morgan chimes in.

"Intact families, no mental disorders," Emily adds. "No precipitating events."

"These are just average good kids," Morgan grimaces. "There has to be some underlying issue."

"Besides relative proximity, there's no obvious connection between any of them," Reid twines his fingers together.

"It seems to rule out an overt suicide pact," Hotch nods, and finds his eyes returning to JJ. Something wasn't right with her.

"And even if there was a pact, none of this behavior lines up," Jane pulls her legs under her. "How someone acts in the days right before they kill themselves is full of indicator after indicator. If you're gonna kill yourself, you broadcast plenty of signs beforehand, whether you mean to or not."

Okay, now Aaron was watching JJ _and_ Jane.

"Yeah, but the most common don't exist here," JJ contributes for the first time, toying with a necklace as she met none of their eyes. "There's no prior attempts, no period of deep depression, no withdrawal from family members – no spontaneous proclamations of love."

"Spontaneous proclamations of love?" Emily turns to face her, voice incredulous. Hotch felt his stomach drop at the expression on JJ's face – it didn't suit their Liaison.

"Sometimes a suicidal person, in the days leading up to the act, will just blurt out 'I love you' to family," JJ parses out her words carefully. "Sort of like a goodbye."

"Because you gotta say it to someone, even if they don't realize it," Jane nods, fingers curling around her satchel's strap. "Because you can't stand to think that you'll be gone and no one will notice, no one will _know."_

JJ and Jane lock eyes, and there's so much more there – a _conversation _there – that Hotch _really_ doesn't like the implications of.

* * *

"So when did you try?" Jane asked outright, propping herself against a wall as they waited for Morgan and Prentiss to get their car.

"What?" JJ asked, turning to face her – face strained, yes, but not guilty or disgusted or angry or anything like that. _Mournful_.

Huh.

"So not you, then," Jane nodded, scanning the terminal. "Someone you loved, then."

"I don't –" JJ started to protest, before cutting herself off and sighing, fingers going back to her neck.

"That necklace was hers, wasn't it?" Jane kicked her go bag closer to JJ's, not facing the Liaison. "So she succeeded?"

"How'd you know?" JJ asked quietly.

"You wouldn't wear that necklace like it's spun from glass and grip it like it's your only lifeline if she was still alive," Jane commented wryly, watching as JJ forced herself to drop her hand. "Who was she?"

"My sister," JJ answered after a moment, her eyes blinking furiously. "What about you?"

Jane had to take a sec to figure what her friend was asking.

"Oh, Jayje I've never loved anyone enough to lose them like you did," Jane smiled sadly – even as in the back of her mind she reminds herself that that's not necessarily true anymore.

"So …" JJ swallowed, fingers creeping back to her neck. "So you tried."

"Nearly succeeded, too," Jane shrugs, blase. "I haven't tried for years."

"And when was the last time you tried?" Hotch's voice sounds from beside them, and JJ jumps. Jane just curses her inattention.

"Not a conversation for now," Jane dismisses as Emily turns to wave them over. "We've got some equivocal death investigations to get down to."

Neither Aaron nor JJ looked at all satisfied, but Jane snagged her bag and left them behind before they could pin her down and make her explain herself.

* * *

"I think that you should go with Reid and Morgan to the schools."

Jane pauses in where she's going over the Leake file, looking up at Hotch. She flips it shut, dropping it on the table to face him fully.

"You're most likely to spot the signs we're looking for, of this Choking Game," Hotch expands at her expression. "You're of more use there than here."

"I thought you wanted me putting together recommended treatment plans to give to parents and school staff," She crossed her arms, perching on the table. "And I suck at interacting with kids, Rin, you know that."

"You do fine with Jack," He counters, and it's such a pathetic deflection she has to snort.

"I'm not dignifying that with a response," She shakes her head, giving him her back as she repacks her satchel. "And I thought we were past this."

Past keeping secrets.

"Jane …" He sighs, and she can hear him angle himself towards her. "Fine, Jane it's because I don't want you alone right now."

"Hotch, this is a _police station,"_ She caps a pen with more force than strictly necessary. "I'm not going to be alone."

"Fine, you want it in plain English?" He grabs her shoulder and turns her to face him. "Jane, I found out four hours ago that you have been or _are_ suicidal, and I don't like that. And, as you well know, we all get reckless when it comes to cases that we relate to."

She opens her mouth to protest, to cut in, but he plows through her.

"I won't allow you to be alone right now," Hotch declares loudly, getting in her face. "I can't be the one to stay with you – for a multitude of reasons, the chief of which being my worry about JJ – but I _can_ have you around people who remind you how much you have to live for. So do you want to keep arguing? Or do you want to go to the schools with Reid and Morgan and find a teen that needs your help?"

Their eyes are locked, their breath mingles.

"That's playing dirty, Hotchner," Jane finds her voice, forcing her eyes not to drop to his lips. "_Fine."_

There's the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Hotch steps back as they both turn to see Rossi standing with a cocked eyebrow aside a _very_ awkward looking Reid.

"You know, the kids shouldn't have to see Mom and Dad fighting," Rossi quips, and Spinner looks like he would rather just sink into the floor than still be there. "Or do anything … _else."_

"Nasty," Jane pulls a face at him, grabbing her satchel and then Spinner's arm. "C'mon, we've some schools to visit. Where's LeFay?"

Reid begins to formulate some kind of response, and Jane tries to pay attention – even as she feels the heat of Hotch's gaze on her neck.

And the phantom feeling of his warmth on hers.

* * *

As Reid stumbled his way through a presentation on the mechanics of strangulation and the like, Jane was studying the kids.

Or, more specifically, she was studying the kids' health. The blonde girl in the front row needed to lay off the cigarettes, and the boy two seats down from her most likely had an eating disorder – bulimia nervosa, she'd bet. Probably had something to do with the wrestling patch he had on his bomber jacket.

She made a note to talk to the school's health services before she left, scribbling something on the seating chart the teacher had passed her.

At least three of the kids, including the punk that Morgan and then Reid were verbally beating the piss out of, had probably strangled themselves two, three times.

But the kid in the back …

They locked eyes, her and him.

He reminded her off … well, of her. Black nails, black clothes. A silver earring and a 'fuck you' attitude. She cocked her head, and he mirrored the gesture unconsciously.

And then he ran his mouth off at Morgan – and promptly _ran._

Lefay went after him, and Jane sent a level gaze at the rest of the class before she followed.

"Christopher Summers," She read off the chart, crouching to eye the bruises he hid beneath his choker (a dark pun). She studied his eyes, the disproportion of his pupils. The frantic searching of his gaze. "You need to get that neck looked at."

They lock eyes again, and Christopher looks like he was about to say something before Morgan pulls him off the floor and begins to walk him out of the building.

Torn, Jane decides to drop by the principal's on her way out. Morgan and Reid had it handled.

* * *

Hotch studied the teenager – kid, really – through the blinds. His eyes land on the black nail polish, the black clothing. The dark hair and the thick eyeliner.

Disconcerting, how sometimes a complete stranger can remind you so strongly of someone you love.

An idea hits him.

"Garcia, I think that this kid will relate to you better than anybody else," Hotch voicalizes, mind racing. "I want you to talk to him, see if you can get him to open up."

"Um. Sir, I have never done that before," Garcia looks nervous, colorfully lined eyes wide. "What if I mess up?"

"You'll be fine," He assures her, shooting a glance at Jane. "Jane will be in there with you."

* * *

"Hi there," Garcia steps in, feeling Jane follow in behind her. "I'm Penelope."

Introducing yourself, that's a thing, right? That's normal?

Yeah, in polite conversation. This was practically an _interrogation._

"Good for you," Christopher dismisses, looking between her and Jane. Disinterested – and Penelope _really_ doesn't want to do this.

But then Jane's hand is in the small of her back, and Garcia forces herself forward.

"Can I sit down?"

"You're the cop," Chrisopher dismisses again – he really does a lot of that, typical teen angst – and then his words hit and Penelope has to stop herself from running fingers over the blue feathers in her bright red hair.

"Um, I look like a cop to you?" She asks as she sits primmly, pretending that she isn't gripping her knees with nerves. "I mean, Janey _maybe_ looks like a cop – but she looks more like a really rebellious robot."

"Robot?" Jane repeats, settling to stand beside her chair. "And what part of me, exactly, is _robotic?"_

"When's the last time you made a facial expression that required more than three muscles?" She counters, feeling herself relax.

A snort, and the both of them turn to face Christopher as he tried to hide his amusement.

"No, I'm not a cop," She got them back on track. "FBI Tech Analyst. I just have some administrative cyber-crub to go over with you."

"And I'm just here so the two of you don't get distracted tearing apart the most recent season of Lost," Jane drawls, and Garcia isn't the only one who squawks – she and Christopher lock eyes in a silent agreement that _no, of course they wouldn't _but _also we totally should._

Jane reads their expressions like the freaking physic she is and thwaps her across the back of her head.

Then Christopher settles back into his morose mulling, and Garcia can't stop herself before words are coming out of her mouth.

"You are glum," She comments, thinking back on the death of his mom. "Time is a great healer."

Christopher scoffs at her, all traces of earlier humor gone. "You have no idea how I feel."

"I lost my mom and dad when I was about your age, though," Garcia tells him, an offer of kinship. "I don't know. I think I have a pretty good idea."

Jane shifted, but Garcia kept her eyes on Christopher, who had his eyes on the wall.

"And I felt totally alone," Penelope pressed, trying not to let old feelings bowl her over. "Till I found the Netizens."

"BTDT," Christopher quirks a lip at her.

"Hey, I'm … " She took a breath, steadying herself. "I'm not lying. It'll totally get better."

Something she wishes she had heard, all those years ago. From anyone.

"And even if you think you've hit max shittiness," Jane chimes in, switching her weight to her other leg. "That means that the shit level can only go down."

Christopher's smile grows; amused by the mix of Jane's dry tone and crass language, no doubt. No wonder Hotch sent them both in.

"BTW, I like your nails," Penelope adds. And she did – they reminded her of Jane's.

"Thanks," He glances between the two of them. "You into goth?"

"You know, I don't think I'm supposed to be anymore, but the love is still there," She holds up her hands to display her glorious charcoal lacquer. "And Janey here only ever wears color that I force her into."

"Oi," Her doc halfheartedly protests. "You know, Jack picked this out this morning, not you."

That completely sidelined anything else that Garcia could've been focused on.

"Jack?" She repeats, sending a grin Jane's way. "Oh boy. _Jack?"_

"Who's Jack?" Christopher asks, looking surprised that he did.

"My boss's five year old son," Garcia grinned at him mischievously. "But that means that if _Jack_ picked out that sweater then this morning _you _were –"

"O-_kay –"_ Jane cut her off, and now Christopher was smirking too. "You know what? I just remembered that I need to grow a field of rice or twenty. See you in three to four years."

And then Jane did an about-face, headed straight out of the room – leaving Garica and Christopher grinning like madmen.

* * *

"Munchausen's," Jane growls, hopping into the car after Hotch. "Fucking _Munchausen's."_

"Jane," Hotch cut in, derailing her inevitable tirade. "Save it."

"I need a punching bag," She muttered to herself, eying the road ahead of them. "Abusive father, _Munchausen's –"_

"_Jane …"_

"Fine, yes, stopping," She took a deep breath. "Let's just get to this chapel before that kid dies, yeah?"

Instead of responding, Hotch turns on the lights and hits the gas.

* * *

Casting a glance over her shoulder to Hotch, Jane waited until he made eye contact with her before climbing into the ambulance after Christopher.

The poor kid.

She checks him over, and he's silent for maybe half of the ride.

"Why didn't you let me die?" He croaks, and she pulls her fingers away from where they were investigating the bruising on his neck.

"Because it's my job to save you," She answers, eying the EMT that was studiously ignoring the both of them. "I couldn't let you."

"You don't know what it's like," He counters, turning away from her even as he winced at the strain on his neck.

"Oh?" She tilts her head, darkly amused. "And how are you so sure of that?"

"Because if you felt like I do then you wouldn't be here right now," He shoots back, adrenaline from his anger arching his back and strengthening his voice. "You'd have killed yourself and gotten it over with already."

"_It?"_ She repeats, dropping his chart at the foot of his gurney. "What 'it,' Christopher? Life? Suffering? Having your bastard father tossing you around like a rag doll?"

The goth teen rolled his eyes, turning away from her again.

"You see, the difference between you and me is _nothing_ –" She continued, reaching out to tilt his face towards her to bore her eyes into his. "– but _time._ I used to be _just _like you."

They continue to stare, him with defiance and her with determination. He didn't believe her? _Fine._

She removed her hand from his jaw and shrugged off her jacket, then her sweater. Christopher watched as she pulled her undershirt's neck down, and _stared_ as he saw her scars.

"You're not the only one with scars," She repeats, pulling her hair off her neck and leaning forward, not caring about how the EMT was staring – only focused on the boy whose eyes were on her neck.

"You have …" He spoke, trailing off as his fingers rose to brush his neck as his gaze was locked on hers.

"You're not the only one," She stressed, knowing what he was looking at. The furrows where the nails of some monster she can't remember wrapped their fingers around her neck and _squeezed._

"How?" Chrisopher asked – _pleaded._ "How do you stand to keep on going?"

"Because they took _everything_ from me," She bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile. "And I refuse to give them any more."

He tore his eyes away from hers, and she turned her focus onto the pile of clothes she discarded.

* * *

Jane eyed where JJ and Hotch were talking, and couldn't bring herself to join them.

Instead she reached over and stole Emily's star puzzle, breaking it apart and trying to put it back together again, ignoring the other woman's grumbling.

She didn't know how much time passed, but eventually –

"Oh for _fuck's sake,"_ Prentiss growled, snatching the completed star puzzle from her and turning it over in her hands. "Are you _kidding me?"_

* * *

Hotch stops the car outside her house, pulling the parking brake. She undoes her seatbelt, but doesn't get out.

"I don't like the thought that I could've never met you."

Jane smiled wryly at him, pulling her jacket closer around her as she scanned her yard – it didn't look like there were any more … _packages_ on her porch.

"Do you know how many times I've nearly died?" She asks, digging her fingers into the seat's upholstery. "The number of times _you _have?"

"I've never contemplated suicide," Aaron counters.

"Well _I _have," She turns to face him, fingers tugging at her flyaways. "And I'm not going to pretend that I haven't. Hell, I've tried – nearly _succeeded."_

He reached over to lace his fingers through hers. She couldn't look at him, not with that pathetically sympathetic look on his face.

"Rin, you need to understand that I've been closer to death than life for all of the years I remember," She sighs, gritting her teeth. "With Them, I was only alive because I had to pay off a debt. After, I was only alive because I had to prove that I was more without Them. And with the Bureau … well, I was only alive because I couldn't allow anyone else to die because I wasn't there to save them."

His fingers tighten, and she still can't look at him.

"Even now?" He murmurs, voice so soft it's barely a whisper. She still can't look at him.

"I'm alive right now," Jane finds her voice, wrapping both her hands around his – pulling his hand close to her chest. "Because I am … because I can't leave you."

"The team?" He asks, and his eyes are wary and calculating and _so_ very vulnerable. "Or me?"

She swallows roughly. Clears her throat.

Faces him.

Their eyes are locked, their breath mingles.

No.

She loses her nerve, flashes him a smile, and gets out of his car.

And when she hears his car drive away, she pretends that she doesn't want to watch as he pulls away.


	28. 28

Rossi rapped his knuckles across the door, stepping back so that he was in full view of the peephole. He waited patiently as there was scuffling on the other side, intimately familiar himself about the routines a vetran needed to go through to feel safe. He wasn't going to begrudge anyone that.

"Dave," Robert greeted him when he opened the door, smiling in a tired greeting. "Didn' expect you today."

"Well, I was facing an empty weekend slaving away over an unfinished book," Dave responded dryly. "And as much as I enjoy writing, I wasn't feeling it. So I thought I'd stop by and see the new place."

Rob stepped back, pulling the door open wider for him to step inside.

The apartment was small but nice, not fancy but well taken care of. Between the various knick knacks and the shelves of books and walls full of plaques, every bit of space was taken over by the fruits of Leon's life. It was times like this, when Rossi really got to really _see_ Rob, that he marveled at Jane's subconscious.

They really were alike, in more ways than one.

"How is she?" Rob's first question was – always was – and Dave buried the smile that surfaced at the affection and worry for their little doctor.

"She's great," Rossi smiled at him, reassuring. "She's doing fine."

He went for his pocket, pulling out his phone to pull up a video that JJ had taken for this exact purpose. "Here, look."

The video was taken before their last case, when Emily and JJ had conspired to get Jane to remember a bit more. They'd dragged her off to the park – nabbing Jack, Henry, and Will on their way out – and forced her into some roller blades, a favorite pastime from when Mari was a kid.

"She's still got the muscle memory," Dave narrated as Rob took the phone, leaning over the older man's shoulder. "Was going circles around the rest of them."

Rob cracked a smile as Emily and Will both took a tumble, Jane laughing behind them as she did her best to get away from the fallout zone.

"And … _Jane,"_ Rob stressed the name, eyes still on the phone. "She's remembering more?"

"She's _familiarizing_ with more," Dave corrected gently, taking the phone back and shutting it off. "Remember, we're not trying to get her to remember –"

"Just trying to get her to accept," Rob finished for him. "I know. And I don't want her to remember all of those horrible things …"

"But you want her to remember you," Dave clasped his hand on Rob's shoulder. "And there's nothing wrong or selfish about that, Rob. Nothing at all."

Rob nodded, and opened his mouth to say something more –

But the sound of Dave's phone going off cut through the foyer.

Frowning, he checked the ID.

"JJ," He greeted, sending Rob an apologetic look. "We were supposed to have this weekend off."

_"Sorry, Rossi,"_ The Liaison apologized. _"But we have a case. Grab your bag, we're headed to Florida."_

* * *

"You _piece of SHIT!"_

Jane cackled as Vine chased after her, bolting down the stairs – belining for Vine's discarded pack.

"So help me, Doe, if you even _think _about –!"

"Think about calling your little boy toy?" Jane asked innocently, holding up Vine's phone in victory. "Oh, you think that your little threats and insults are gonna stop me? You _need_ to go on a date, Vine."

"Like hell I do," Vine growled, trying in vain to get her mobile back – forcing Jane back against her kitchen's island. "And what do you mean, _go on a date?_ I get laid _plenty."_

"But you don't go on _dates,"_ Jane countered, teeth shining and smile wide. "You two just dance around each other. Just _call him."_

"I've known him since I was a _kid,"_ Vine protested, managing to snag the phone from her with her freakish height and long arms. "It's _weird."_

"So?" Jane pulled a face, relaxing back against her counter. "Anyway, _I_ think that you –"

Her thought was cut off by the sound of her phone going off, and she's answered it before she realized that etiquette dictates that she excuse herself first.

Well, too late now.

"We've got a case," Hotch is speaking as soon as the phone is to her ear. "An apparent serial abductor and killer who called in his own suicide."

"Damn," Jane blinks, batting away Vine as she tries to get close enough to listen in on the call. _"Damn._ What makes it our kind of case?"

"A girl is still missing, and he's completely covered in tattoos of his victims."

Jane freezes, locking eyes with Vine.

"Tattoos, you say?" Jane repeated, watching as Vine's eyes widened and the other woman began to profusely shake her head. "Rin, any chance I can bring along a consultant?"

* * *

There was a woman on the jet that Morgan had never seen before.

She was tall, probably close to his own height, and coiled aggressively. She was a shade or two darker than he was, with close cropped twists, and was so wiry it bordered on skeletal. The edge of ink poked out from each sleeve of her leather jacket, and he could see more in the holes in her jeans.

"The hell you looking at?" She snapped, aggressive and clearly uncomfortable and lashing out. "Back off, Fed."

And then suddenly Jane was there, smacking the stranger across the back of her head.

_"Vine,"_ The Doc scolded, frowning deeply. "If you're gonna be here at all, you need to play nice."

"Don't like government types," The woman – Vine, apparently – grumbled, sitting down heavily on the couch. "Why am I _here,_ Doe?"

"You coulda said 'no,' you know," Jane rolled her eyes, more amused than fed up. It looked more like banter than argument, to him.

"Agent Morgan," Derek tried to cut through some of the tension, extending his hand to Vine. "You know Jane?"

"Yeah, I know her," Vine didn't take his hand. "Know her too well, if knowing her means I get dragged along to crime scenes."

"Puh-lease," Jane rolled her eyes, and scientifically it was _fascinating_ to see Jane around friends outside of the team. And also bewildering. "You've been to plenty of crime scenes, Ms. I-Only-Date-Drug-Dealers."

"Oh, you _better –"_ Vine tried to dig into Jane again, but was cut off by the pointed clearing of Hotch's throat.

"Vine, I presume," Hotch said in his Cut-The-Bullshit Voice. "Thank you for agreeing to consult on this case."

"Don't mention it," Vine sighed heavily. "So you're Boss Man, then? Rin, right?"

All eyes turned to an embarrassed looking Jane, scratching the back of her neck.

"Yes, I am," Hotch takes it in stride. "But please, call me Hotch."

"Right," Vine grins mischievously, shoving her hands into the pockets of the maroon hoodie she was wearing under her jacket. "Wait, lemme guess."

She turned to face the rest of the team, which was awkwardly huddled behind Hotch and Morgan. Automatically, the two of them stepped out of the way.

"LeFay," Vine jabbed a finger at Morgan, and he nodded automatically. She paused to think, rolling her shoulders. "Blondie's JJ, and the old guy's Rossi. Which means that Sexy over there is Prentiss and Skinny is Spinner."

"Sexy?" Emily raised an eyebrow, and Morgan noticed that Jane was beginning to look very much like she was regretting bringing Vine along.

"O_-kay!"_ Jane cut off that thread of conversation. "You got it right! Everyone, this is Vine. She's a pain in the ass, but please restrain yourself from punching her. Or shooting her."

"Forgive me … Vine, was it?" Rossi stepped forward as the team filed in. "What manner of consultation will you be doing for us."

"I'm a tattoo artist," Vine cocked her hip, as if daring him to judge her. "And I'm damn good at what I do. So Doe brought me along for the ride, considering your dead creeper was inked like nobody's business."

Morgan had heard it before, but hadn't properly processed it. Vine had called Jane 'Doe' – which meant that odds were, she knew about Jane and her amnesia.

And by the way that Hotch's eyes sharpened, he had realized too.

* * *

"Ugh, it smells like how I pictured the first season of Breaking Bad."

Rossi chuckled as Vine gagged, shoving a long maroon sleeve over her mouth and nose. At least when the woman complained – none too rarely – she was entertaining about it.

Barton coughed apologetically into the air, looking uncomfortable himself, and settled for handing her a pair of gloves.

"The chair was turned like that?" Hotch clarified. "This is exactly the way you found him?"

Barton gave a quiet affirmation, and Dave kept half an ear on the conversation as he drifted closer to where Jane and her friend were looking over the body.

"Damn," Vine sighs, shaking her head. "Dead bodies _suck._ How do you _do_ this every day?"

"Not every day," Jane snarks back. "Maybe every other. One in three."

"Ass," Vine shoots at her, then turns back to the body, frowning.

"What is it?" Rossi asks her, coming around to meet her perspective.

"It's just …" Vine frowns some more. "Damn, this person is good."

"How do you mean?" Hotch breaks from taking to Barton to ask.

"These are _free handed portraits,"_ Vine emphasizes, pulling on her gloves. "And _damn _good ones too."

"Free handed is the most difficult style to do," Jane nods her understanding. "And portraits are the most difficult subject."

Rossi shot her an amused look. Jane stuck her tongue out in response.

"Damn right they are," Vine begins to poke at the body, only wincing slightly at the blood. "See the gradient on the edge here? The fade? These tattoos are all different ages — except for these."

Vine gestured to the unsub's lower torso. "See, cuz these were _bam, bam, bam._ He got a bunch done all at once."

"The faces?" Reid asked, squinting.

"No, the _tree,"_ Vine's lips twisted. "Damn, if whoever did these _wasn't_ aware of exactly what these all represented … they would've have to be _the_ most ignorant and idiotic person actually _ever."_

"You think it would have been that obvious?" Hotch asked.

"Each of these faces would be a four, five hour ordeal," Vine tilted her head. "The tree longer – much longer. This is all one person, subjecting this guy to pain for hours on end. When you're in pain, the worst of you comes out. And if after all this time you don't realize what the person on the other end of your gun is capable of …"

"Then you're an idiot," Jane finishes for her, face grim. "Or you're in on it."

* * *

The team split up, pairs taking on different parts of the case, but Hotch decided to stick close to Jane and her 'consultant.'

"Oh, that's different," Vine suddenly spoke up, having turned over the unsub's arm. "Someone was hiding some old ink, creepy bastard."

"What is it?" Hotch came behind where Jane was crouching to see the forearm.

"A coverup," Vine's teeth went between her tongue. "And a shitty one at that. Shoulda stuck with portraits."

"Coverup?" Jane leaned forward, fingers running over the oddly placed rose. "Oh, I see it."

Hotch did not see it.

"Gosh, Rin, use your hawk eyes for _something,"_ Vine teased him with a mischievous grin. "See that shadow right there? Under the stem of the rose?"

Hotch blinked, and then like an optical illusion it suddenly slotted into place.

"Is that a cross?"

"Yup," Vine nodded, unceremoniously dropping the arm. "And looks prison to me. Don't you have a database for that shit?"

* * *

Jane pulled off her gloves, pulling at her collar and grimacing at the heat. God, Boston never got this hot. _Virginia_ usually never got this hot.

Oh, how she hated this goddamn heat.

"Oh for fucks sake," Vine sidled up to her, batting at her hand. "Just take it off!"

"What?" She blinked, then balked at the idea. _"No,_ are you crazy?"

"Your pretty claw marks are out full force," Vine nodded to her cheek. "And you're going to boil alive. Everyone whose opinion matters here already knows, so just take off your damn jacket before I evaporate just _looking_ at you."

Well, she was about three seconds from melting …

Jane sighed, giving in, and figured that if the stares got bad she could just throw her jacket back on. She passed Vine her satchel, and stripped off her jacket, peeling off her long undershirt – leaving her in just a black tanktop and her gloves.

Immediately Jane felt the eyes on her, but she forced herself not to think about them and instead focused on putting up her hair – trying to forget the way that putting her arms up stretched the scar tissue along her shoulders.

"Finally reached your boiling point?" Rossi commented, stepping over to join them. He'd been hovering around her and Vine the whole case, but she didn't have it in her to get mad at him about it. He hated secrets and mysteries with a passion, despite being a man who kept so many.

"Sure did," She sent a grimacing grin his way. "But don't worry, I won't pull a Wicked Witch and melt into a puddle of steaming goo."

"That would be something," Rossi batted back lightly.

"So what do you say I coordinate with the morgue and get this body moved before it completely decomposes?" She offered him, scanning the warehouse for Hotch. "If his tattoo is a full suit, then someone can get some pictures and go to some local artists and see if his style matches anyone known."

"Sounds like a plan, I'll grab Prentiss." Rossi nods, jerking his head towards the front as he pulls his phone out – probably to call Garcia. "Better check in with Hotch, though, lest he get mad at you for running off again."

"That was one time," She called over her shoulder, headed for the door with Vine close behind. _"One time!"_

* * *

Jane picked up the phone, barely glancing at the ID as she stood over the Unsub's dead body.

"Spinner," She greets him.

_"In his journals, the Unsub refers to a blank space – singular,"_ His voice filters through, and Jane rapidly puts him on speaker so Vine can hear. _"But that doesn't make sense. There's the spot on his chest where we assume Rebecca's portrait to go, but there's also that gap on his back."_

Vine frowns, pulling off her gloves and nodding for Jane and the ME to flip the body. They do, and immediately she's running her fingers over the space – a look of intense concentration on her face.

"You got a blacklight?" Vine asks, and Jane dives into her bag for one.

_"What do you see?"_

"Looks like the artist was using invisible ink," Jane narrated, and as the ME shut the lights off –

Oh. _Oh._

"The partner's a woman."

_"How do you know?"_

"Because I'm looking at the image of a fetus on our dead body's back," Jane answered grimmly. "The partner's a woman, and she's pregnant."

* * *

"Vine," Jane was calling into her phone, clearly agitated. "Vine. For fucks sake – _Vine!"_

"Everything all right?" Hotch asked, glancing at her before returning his attention to the road.

"That son of a bitch," Jane hung up, shoving her phone into her satchel. "Swear to god that woman's as flighty as a flipping _sprite._ She just leaves me a message saying 'nice to meet your team, I'll make my own way back' and then shuts off her phone."

"She do that often?" Hotch glances her way again, taking note of the dry amusement on her face.

"Yeah, she never could stay put long," Jane smiled at him. "Though I expected her to at least make it to the end of the case. But that's not important. Let's get to Juliet Monroe's, and hopefully before she can kill Rebecca Daniels."

* * *

"Holy shit – _Jane!"_

Jane tears through the house, practically skidding into the room where Rebecca was being held. She's barely glimpsed the huddled form of Rebecca being comforted by Barton before –

"Holy shit," She echoes Morgan's oath. _"Shit."_

She's diving for her satchel, ordering for water and more light, and Juliet Monroe – the partner – is crying out in pain at the contractions of her labor.

Her labor that is going _very badly._

She barely has gloves on before she's between the woman's legs, bandages pressed to stem the flow of the blood, watching as the baby begins to crest.

_"Push,_ Juliet," Jane orders, and sees that Morgan has taken Juliet's hand. _"Push."_

The delivery is messy and rough and Juliet will be hard pressed to survive, but the baby is finally out and his cry is loud and he's _beautiful._

He's beautiful.

Hotch ushers her away with the kid to let the paramedics who arrived treat Juliet, and Jane doesn't protest the man handling or how his arms were cradling her because the baby is _beautiful_ and she's too busy sacrificing her longsleeve to swaddle him.

"That was pretty impressive," Hotch smiles down at her. "When'd you learn to do that?"

"You do realize I actually _went_ to med school, right?" She quips, making her way through the house to the ambulance outside. "And JJ was pregnant. What did you _expect_ me to do?"

"Fair enough," He smiles, casting an inscrutable look at the body of Juliet Monroe being wheeled away.

And Jane watched too.

Odd irony, she thought, as the scar across her abdomen _throbbed_ in time with the baby's breath.

Odd. And sad.

But she doesn't do sad, and doesn't do remembering, so she passes the baby off to the EMTs and pretends she doesn't miss the warmth in her arms.

* * *

"One last stop I need to make before we head out," Rossi tells Hotch, mindful of Jane sorting through her satchel nearby. "I'll just need a couple hours. And Emily."

Hotch nods his understanding, clearly knowing what they were up to and planning on grilling them later. Rossi nodded to Prentiss, and the two of them peeled off to one of the cars the field office had provided them.

Just before they left, he overheard a snippet of conversation.

"Where are they headed?" Jane asked Hotch.

"Just had an errand to run," Hotch dismissed. "Nothing to worry about."

It was a testament to their circumstances that Hotch was becoming such a good liar. Especially to his friends.

* * *

The tattoo artist – who Emily had honestly forgotten the name of, if she had even known it to begin with – grinned at them when they walked back into his shop.

"No, you still cannot see the body," Rossi cut him off before he could ask, his I Am Unimpressed face full blast. "We're here about a different matter."

"Another dead body?" He asked excitedly, the coils of his hair swaying as he looked between them.

"No," Emily shook her head. "We've a seperate, ongoing investigation that we thought you might be able to help out on."

"Sure, anything."

Rossi reached into the file he always kept in his bag, removing a stack of photos and placing them out on the counter, as they had only the day before. Pictures of Jane.

"Whoa," The artist picked up one. _"Whoa."_

Emily and Rossi exchanged glances.

"What?" Emily pried, glancing at the photo – it was a blown up image of Jane's lotus flower. "What's so interesting about it?"

"Man, this person is _messed up,"_ He grinned at her and Rossi. "I mean, seriously."

"Which person?" Rossi pressed, laying out more photos. "The artist or the canvas?"

"The canvas, maybe, but definitely the artist," The tattoo artist – god, Emily _really _wished she remembered his name – clarified. "Or, well, at least one of them. The guy who did the scaring."

"Oh?" Rossi tilted his head, and Emily's fists curled at how _close they were. _"More than one?"

"Three, I'd bet."

"How can you tell?" Emily asked, eyes flaring wide. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah, I mean, kinda. Whoever did the flower was _amazing._ I'm talking art school and years and years of work. That's your master," He pushed aside a few of the photos, pulling out a shot of some of the ivy and the red IV. "But see here? The line work is sloppier, and the color less saturated. Still good, no doubt about it, but not the same caliber."

"What about the scarring?" Emily squinted at the layered scars across the pictures – across Jane's back. "How are you sure it's not the same person? One of the other artists doing scarring too?"

"Well, the work is good but it wasn't done at the same time," He shook his head, running his fingers across the hatching. "And the scarring wasn't incorporated well into any other part of the piece. And it doesn't lend to the flow."

"Lend to the flow?" Emily echoed quietly.

"Yeah. If I had to guess, I'd say that whoever scarred her up was trying to … dunno, _add_ to the tattoos.' He cleared his throat, parsing through the photos. "Dunno why. The work may be a bit amature at points, but it's a great piece."

"Can you tell about how old the scarring is?" Rossi questioned. "Compared to the tattoo?"

"I'd guess a year," He shrugged. "A year after they got inked up like this, those scars were added."

"And do you recognize the style?" Emily asked. "Anything about the piece that might indicate who would've done it? Or where?"

He shook his head. Emily's heart sank.

"My advice?" He leaned back, his hair swaying with him. "You'd be better off asking the canvas, rather than poking around the whole country looking for this guy."

"Well that's going to be a problem," Rossi glanced meaningfully at Emily. She looked back at him grimmly.

The tattoo guy, on the other hand, was ecstatic.

"Wait, is this guy dead, too?"

* * *

Emily walked away proudly from where she left Reid with a sweeping defeat at Poker and Morgan with a healthy dose of bewilderment.

Jane was sitting alone, filling out one of her millions of forms.

She couldn't help but think about what that tattoo guy had said. That whoever gave her those tattoos, they weren't the ones who scarred her up.

It wasn't as if she had expected that, not really. But it implied that between the time that Marisole Ryden escaped the Massacre, and when she ended up in the hands of whoever cut into her and … and took her baby, that someone had cared about her.

She had the money to buy a large, no doubt expensive tattoo. She had two people that worked on her, an amatuer, even. She was safe enough, _felt_ safe enough that she willingly exposed herself to two people with no connection to the Rydens or the Colemyers and she had tattooed on her body her middle name and the nickname that her father gave her.

"Hey," She smiled, sitting down. "Vine scamper off somewhere?"

"She was never one for goodbyes," Jane smiled at her, twisting her wrist under the silver c-bracelet that Robert had given her. "I wasn't surprised."

"How long have you known her?" Emily asked, curious. "You're very much at ease with her."

"... years, I suppose," Jane tugged at her ear. "I mean, over a decade."

"That's a long time," She raised her eyebrows, settling back in the jet's seat. "Did you meet her in medical school, then?"

"Nah," She shook her head, eyes going distant. "I met her There."

Emily blinked, shocked. Jane had only ever alluded to 'There.' And definitely had never talked about someone from There.

"She was the one who convinced me to get out, you know," Jane smiled, ducking her head. "She told me: 'Doe, you got no business rotting away in a place like this. You came from somewhere where people loved you, even if they're not with you anymore. What makes you think you don't got people who wanna love you now?'"

Jane laughed, twisting her pen. "And I said no way in hell. And then a month later, I left."

"She sounds like a good friend," Emily smiled, warmed. "I'm glad you have her."

"Yeah, I am too," Jane smiled. "I am too."

* * *

"Something's bothering you."

Hotch continued to pull files from his bag, not looking Rossi's way. They both knew he was right.

"What is it, Aaron?" Dave pressed, stepping further into his office.

"Emily just told me what Jane said about Vine," He picks his words carefully. "And …"

"It suddenly seems very coincidental that the tattoo artist who knows Jane, knows about her amnesia, has never given the same breakdown of her ink that Vine gave us for Burke?" Rossi offers.

"And that she left," Hotch turned to him, frustrated. "She came along because she wanted to help Jane, but the moment that she couldn't give any more she left."

"And the timing just happened to be that we couldn't stop her," Rossi nods thoughtfully. "Couldn't talk to her."

"Something isn't adding up there," Hotch sighs, rubbing his eyes. "But for now, there's nothing we can do."

"There's always something we can do," Dave countered, turning halfway to leave. "We can trust Jane, if only just for now. She's got a good head on her shoulder, she knows how to pick her company."

* * *

Vine sat back in the bus seat, pulling out her computer. She hadn't planned on meeting Boss Man and The Team, but now she had to make sure that she didn't get busted because of it. She began to scrub, pulling data fragments and expunging more in-depth databases. She went slowly, carefully. She couldn't afford to be sloppy.

She's two hours into the bus ride when she gets the call.

"Hey," She answers, not bothering with more of a greeting than that.

_"How is she?"_ He asks her, worried like always. Always the same question, too.

"She's fine, old man," She grimaced. "The Team's good for her."

_"Good, I'm glad," _He sounds the slightest bit relieved. _"Rossi dropped by, before this case."_

"C'mon, Robert," Vine cocked an eyebrow she was sure he could hear. "Gotta give me more than that."

_"Well, he says that she's not … not _remembering," He explained. _"Just refamiliarizing. That's all."_

"That's good," She assured him bluntly. "We don't need her to remember. We just need her to play along."

And she hung up.


	29. 29

For all her previous fire and vitriol, Dr. Hart was an incredibly quiet person.

Once she got settled – which, Hotch couldn't help but notice, took only a single satchel and an exchange of paperwork – she was eerily silent. Dr. Hart's work, so far, was primarily forms and reports to get her into the flow of things; she had yet to ask a single question, yet to utter a single complaint – or greeting or statement or anything of the sort.

Dr. Hart did not draw attention to herself, ever, and the flat expressions and the dark clothing she wore allowed her to fade into the background almost completely.

Hotch didn't like it. It was clearly learned behavior, and he was _very_ interested in who might have impressed habits so damaging into the newest of his team.

He, of course, didn't bring it up with Gideon because that would be stating the obvious and Gideon would just give him that _look. _And, as much as it pained him, it wasn't his business. The deal that he made with Dr. Hart was to get her to stay, because he could _see _the damage she was causing herself without help, but there was no requirement or allowance for him to provide her treatment.

His hands were tied, and Dr. Hart didn't seem inclined to cut the rope.

* * *

Gideon couldn't help but find her fascinating.

Truly, it was remarkable that she was even still alive. Clearly, she hadn't gotten a lick of treatment for the obvious trauma she had endured. She had merely dusted herself off and moved on, unhealthy coping mechanisms and all.

Horribly disturbing and heart wrenching, of course, but fascinating all the same.

She was incredibly strong, to have made it as far as she had on her own.

But it was clear that Jane was unable or unwilling to seek help. Whatever environment had shaped her, forced her to be unable to see herself as either worthy or capable of getting help, still carried its marks on her today. Which meant that anything they could give her would need to be spoon fed.

"Dr. Hart," He smiled at her as he entered her office, as he did every day. "How are you this morning?"

And, like every morning, she stiffened, smiled tightly – and artificially – at him, and gave a curt nod.

It was perhaps the height of irony, that he – a rather mum person himself – was the one who needed to provide the conversation in such instances. Every day he could, he stopped by and talked to her. About cases and birds, about the absurdity of some of the more foolish agents in the Bureau, about how Rossi was taking retirement. Anything and everything.

Because if it was anyone else, Gideon would treat her with silence. Counting on how the day would come that she would feel the need to fill the void, break the air. But with Jane, Jason could tell that that wouldn't work. That she first needed to know that words were welcome – _appreciated _– before she could provide her own.

He was counting on how one day, after he ran out of things to say, she would take up the slack.

* * *

Jane … didn't know how to feel about working for the BAU.

Working for the FBI, she felt fine about. It was work, and work was good. She was helping, getting paid, and she was _so close_ to getting her debts paid off.

She could _taste _it.

But working for the BAU was different. _Strange._ Because when Gideon came into her office every morning, gabbing at her about sand peppered breasted whatevers, or going on about how Davie Dear was getting on with his book writing, there was this _layer._ Like how he didn't expect anything of her _now,_ but he _would._

And it was _strange._

And working with Hotchner was strange too, because where Gideon would fill the space Hotchner would bask in the solitude. He would make no conversation, _expect nothing of her –_ and that was forigen, too, because everyone always wanted something from her. That's how people _worked._

But not Gideon. And not Hotchner.

There were other agents on the team, though it was limited to three, and though she knew their names and their charts by heart they were …

Well, they weren't Hotchner or Gideon.

The only reason she knew that Agent O'Keefe transferred out, even, was because the paperwork. The agent hadn't bothered to say goodbye, not that Jane expected her to.

The new agent was … well …

Jane didn't know if she had words that weren't cliche and overly poetic. He was a tall, buff football player of a man with skin a shade darker than hers and closely cropped hair. His smile was genuine, but he was always coiled and ready.

Ready for what? She didn't know.

He was like a dashing hero out of a story or a fairy tale.

According to his file, his name was Derek Morgan, and he was 35. He was a Chicago native, went to college as a star football player, then became a beat cop. Promoted to detective, brief stint on the bomb squad, then went to the Academy and gained his agent status at 33. Certified as a profiler at 34.

A knee injury ended his football career, and he'd been caught in a handful of nasty bombs. Childhood case of pneumonia nearly knocked him off, but he recovered after a week or two. Shoulder injury pre-academy, hasn't had any checkups for it since.

For the most part: a healthy agent.

But there was something there, well hidden and secreted away, that she recognized. The way he reacted to people too close to him, the way he stared down people comparable to him in size and ability. How he grimaced when someone he couldn't see jarred him.

She wouldn't say anything. It wasn't her job to. She just made a mental note of it, and let him be – expecting him to do the same. Expecting him to be just like the others.

But he wasn't.

He dropped by her office the second week he was on the job.

The team had gone off on a kidnapping case that hadn't needed her consultation. She had kept up on her paperwork and was finished, playing with the idea of calling Vine like she'd promised to do … three months ago.

And then suddenly Agent Morgan was there.

"Hey, I thought I'd just pop in," He smiled, dazzling. "I'm Agent Derek Morgan –" He extended his hand " – and I just transferred in."

Jane had to look at her hand for a moment before she remembered that she was supposed to shake it and not take it's pulse. She stood slowly, extending her hand and trying to ignore how small she felt when her hand was dwarfed by his giant one.

She shook it once.

"Dr. Hart," She responded after a moment, trying to remember what They taught her about manners. "They call me Jane."

"Well, Jane," Morgan was still smiling, but in a studying way. "Carson and Phlaster were going to take me out for drinks tonight, show me around for some good watering holes."

He waited expectantly, and Jane couldn't figure out exactly what he was asking her. Was she supposed to sign off? Congratulate him?

"... Did you want to come?"

Oh. _Oh._

"No," She shook her head, once, sharply. "Enjoy."

Going out drinking …

Not without Vine.

Morgan looked like he was at the corner of bewildered and confused, but managed to shake it off as she returned to her paperwork.

"Well, if you change your mind …" He coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Well if you change your mind, you're welcome to come."

She watched him turn to leave through her lashes, and couldn't stop the words from tumbling out by the time he'd reached the door.

"Try _Every Night."_

"What?" He stopped, turned.

She swallowed back the dryness in her throat.

"_Every Night,"_ She repeated, keeping her nerves out of her tone. "It's near that bar and grill on 13th. If you're looking for a good place to drink with some buddies, that's the place to go."

Diving back into her paperwork, she pretended not to notice the knowing grin he flashed her before he finally left her office.

* * *

When she came into work that day, she skirted around anyone who knew her and belined straight for her office, making sure the door was closed firmly behind her. The only windows she had were outward facing, at least, so light could still stream in as she pulled off her satchel and removed a small mirror from one of the inner pockets.

Sitting down exhaustedly in one of her office's guest chairs, wincing at a pain in her hip, she examined the blood on her lip and the bruising on her chin. It looked as though one of her teeth dug in and split her lower lip, but nothing felt loose and she'd never really bruised easily, so the discoloration was mild. Bit of concealer and she'd be fine.

But hiding a split lip with makeup was pointless.

After dabbing away at the blood, Jane gave it up as a bad job. She sighed, folding her mirror and returning it to her bag. No point worrying about it, when there was nothing that she could do.

Instead she went about finishing her report on Phlaster, sure that the man was no longer field capable. That car accident that he got into a year ago was still hindering him today, and he was too reckless with his health. She wasn't going to have anyone die on her watch, and she recommended a transfer to Strauss and Hotchner accordingly.

She finished the report in under an hour, then completed some other paperwork for another three. She was getting hungry by then, and figured the best use of her time was to just drop the paperwork off directly with Hotchner, then to run out and get some lunch.

Jane knocked at his door, but seeing that he was on the phone slipped in quietly and made her way to his desk. He clearly knew that she was there – and she didn't much care for boundaries that she didn't erect and stoically enforce herself – so she felt no guilt by unceremoniously dropping the pile of folders on his desk.

He glanced up in acknowledgement, still talking, and all emotion slipped from his voice the moment he looked up. In an instant his hand was on her wrist, shackling her in place.

Her heart rate jumped and she muffled a gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip was firm and he was ending his call before she could do more than pry uselessly at his fingers.

Her voice had dried up, and she was gritting her jaw so much it was straining her teeth, but Hotchner wouldn't let go.

He wouldn't _let go._

Hotchner hung up and redialed, punching in an extension in an instant.

"Gideon," Hotchner was saying, and Jane was just trying to focus on slowing her heart rate – cursing leaving her satchel and therefore her _pepper spray_ in her office. "Would you come into my office?"

She gulped.

What had she _done?_ Was it coming in when he didn't say to? Was it because she was recommending a transfer? No, Hotchner was likely to agree with that. Did she break a rule she didn't know? Did she offend him because she interrupted? But _he _hung up –

"Yes?"

Jane twisted around at the sound of Gideon's voice, pulling with all her might at Hotchner's grip. It had slackened at Gideon's entrance, and she managed to wrench free and push towards the door.

Unluckily for her, Gideon was still in the doorway, and though he was older he was bigger, too. He stepped in front of her, and she nearly hurtled into him before she managed to come to a stop.

"What's going on?" Gideon repeated, voice soft. He stepped forward – and she stepped back to keep distance – and closed the door, studying her face.

"Let me out," Jane forced the words out, cursing herself for quivering.

"Not until I understand what's going on here," He placates, raising his hands like she was an unsub or something. He turned to Hotchner. "What happened?"

"I was just going to find out."

What …?

The anger had leached from Hotchner's frame, and he was looking frustrated and … guilty?

"You grabbed me," Jane skirted away from them, her back to a wall and both of the men in her sights. "That's what happened. _You grabbed me."_

"I'm sorry," Hotchner apologized, and he was blatant with his sincerity – if it could be believed. "I didn't think, and I definitely didn't mean to scare you or hurt you. I just needed you to stay here while I got Gideon."

"Got Gideon for _what?"_ She lashed out, rocking back on her heels – cursing _not having her satchel._

"Jane," Gideon placated, tone slow and even. "What happened to your face?"

She swiped at her lip automatically, coming back bloody.

Oh.

"Nothing," She grimaced. "Can I go, please?"

"Jane, if someone is hurting you it's our responsibility to help you," Hotch comes out from behind his desk slowly – and if she hadn't seen how fast he could rush an unsub or pull his gun she might've even relaxed. "How did you split your lip?"

"I smacked myself with a door," She fibbed, swiping at her face again – her black glove coming back smeared with her cheap, dollar store concealer. _Shit._

"Jane …" Gideon tried again, and she couldn't _stand_ the look on his face. Like she was some skittish Deer that might bolt at any moment.

"It's _nothing."_

Gideon studied her again, and she felt her skin crawl as he continued to profile her.

"Jane –"

"Look, working here was a mistake, okay?" Jane lashed out, fists curling. "I'm clearly not a good fit. I can head back to Boston, or get a job in Virginia, or go to Philly –"

"No, no Jane, you're not in trouble," Hotchner cuts her off – and he's doing something with his body language. Curling in on himself, making himself smaller and less threatening.

She knew exactly what he was doing, and she was cursing herself for how much it was _working._

"Jane, I know that relying on people is not something you've ever been able to do," Gideon speaks up, slowly stepping forward. "We both know that –" He gestures at Hotchner and himself "– but you need to understand that your job is to protect us, and ours is to protect _you."_

… It was?

She swallowed again, throat feeling dry, and by then Gideon was close enough that he gently, slowly took her elbow. Squeezed it reassuringly as Hotchner stepped closer.

"Jane, what happened to your lip?" Hotchner asks, and all of his anger is gone – or somewhere she can't see it.

Her tongue darts out to her lip, the taste of blood on the tip of it.

"My, uh, neighborhood," She pulls her elbow from Gideon's grip. "Not the nicest area."

"Did you get assaulted?" Hotchner pried gently. "Mugged?"

"They, uh," She cleared her throat, averting her eyes. "They wanted my wallet and … and my bracelet."

"Your bracelet?" Gideon repeated. She realized that they might not have known about it, she wore it under her shirt all the time.

"Just a plain band," Her lips twitched, corners pulling down. The dread at having lost it came back full force. "It was iron, but it was painted silver, that's all."

"Did you file a report?" Hotchner moved on, eyes darting to the pile of paperwork on his desk that she'd dropped off. "Call the police?"

She tilted her head, confused.

"Was I supposed to?"

* * *

Hotch could only control himself until Jane was back in his office before he growled, digging his knuckles into his temples.

"So it's worse than we realized," Gideon agreed, his voice low and even in the way that indicated how _incredibly_ pissed he was. "Good to know."

"_Was I supposed to?" _Hotch quotes caustically, teeth gritted. "She didn't even _know."_

"Wherever she was, she was never taught to fight back," Gideon concurred, lips tight. "Looks like we're going to have to teach her."

"How?" Hotch dropped his hands. "She won't even call me 'Hotch' – how are we supposed to show her that she doesn't have to be _perfect_ with us. That she can _trust_ us."

"Maybe not grabbing her would help," Gideon commented mildly, and Hotch winced.

"I wasn't even thinking," He grimaced. "Dammit, I wasn't _thinking. _I just –"

"Saw one of your own with a split lip," Gideon finished for him. "And reacted."

"Yeah," He sat down heavily at his desk. "So what do we do?"

"We start taking her with us everywhere."

Hotch rolled that over in his mind. They hadn't really pulled her into the field unless she was really needed, she had enough work to do at Quantico … but –

"That might work," Hotch nodded, pensive. "We force her to work _with_ people, rather than _for._ If she's in with us more …"

"Then the Mere Exposure Effect kicks in," Gideon nods, satisfied. "And she begins to see us as _people,_ and as people that care for her as much as she cares for us."

Hotch nods, already thinking over what kind of paperwork he would need to file.

Gideon sends him one last loaded glance, before leaving his office.

* * *

There was pounding at her door.

"Doe!"

More pounding.

"_Doe!"_

"WHAT?!" She shouted back, not looking forward to the noise complaint that was surely going to be sent her way.

"Open the fucking door, Doe!"

She groaned, pushing herself off the floor where she had sprawled down – _not_ moping, thank you. Stretching.

"The fuck you want, Vine?" She growled, throwing the door open to her friend's unimpressed face. "Seriously, what do you want? I told you, I'm not hitting the clubs tonight."

"Girl, the only reason you don't hit the clubs these days is if there's some kind of cosmic shift in your world," Vine pushed into the apartment past her as she spoke, bowling her over physically and verbally. "What happened?"

"Bad day," Jane sighs, knowing that Vine wasn't leaving without answers. "Got mugged, had a shit day at work, and my fridge is empty."

"Whoa, let's wind up and unpack that real quick, yeah?" Vine grabbed Jane before she could return to her nice piece of (dirty) floor. "You got mugged?"

"Yeah, and I _liked_ that wallet," She whined, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. "And that bracelet."

"Wait," Vine spoke up, voice very low and serious. "They took your bracelet? The silver c-band?"

"_Iron,_ but yeah. And I liked it, too." She nodded, collapsing onto her shitty squeaky chair and kicking off her boots.

"The bracelet. _The_ bracelet," Vine repeated, increasingly pissed. "The only thing of any value that you had when you ended up in that shithole?"

"Yeah, I guess," Jane shrugged, upset but not nearly as annoyed as Vine was. "What, it doesn't matter. It was just some stupid bracelet. It wasn't even actually silver."

"That's not –" Vine cut herself off, breathing in deeply. "Okay. Okay. I'm upset, but you're not. That's okay, don't worry about it. This is just one of those things that you don't get. Not yet. That's okay. You'll get there."

"O …. kay?" Jane looked at her a bit longer, but she was going through some breathing exercises or something. "Whatever. Why are you here?"

"Because you've been working at the FBI for _weeks_ and I wanna know what it's like," Vine shook herself out of her stupor. "So: _what's it like?"_

"Weird," Jane decided on the word. "Very weird."

"Girl, everything's weird to you," Vine deadpanned, poking through her – empty, like she _said _– fridge. "I mean details. That Jay dude, how's working with him?"

"Weird," Jane repeats, still meaning it. "It's … it's just like they're _looking_ for something. _Expecting_ something. And I don't know what it is yet, but they won't _stop."_

Vine closed the fridge with a sigh, crossing her arms and propping herself up against Jane's lopsided cabinets.

"Doe, you gotta understand something," Vine knocked some mud off her boots. "You're _intriguing._ You can't help it, it's just how you are. You're idiosyncratic and a bundle of contradictions and you don't make _sense._ These guys are profilers? They trust you, Doe, but they don't _understand _you, not yet. You're not predictable, and they're probably getting all kinds of funky readings off of you."

"So?" Jane studied her nails, using her thumbnail to dig some dirt out from under her pointer. She didn't look at Vine, couldn't.

"_So_ you need to see how they see you," Vine rolled her eyes. "You're a profiler's wet dream. The ultimate profile: finding out who you really are. Even you don't know the answer to that, so double whammy. But they're stuck, because you're not giving them anything, and they're respecting the boundaries you've put up. They're just cataloging what they can and waiting for the walls to fall."

Her throat felt dry.

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that," She admitted softly, fingers curling into fists. "I don't know if I _can."_

"That's okay, you don't have to." Vine smiled, pushing off against the wall. "But you _do_ have to get dressed, because alcohol solves all problems and you are entirely too sober for a day that you got _mugged."_

Without meaning to, a smile bloomed across Jane's face, and with Vine here … well, the day just got a whole lot better.

Vine's laughter was infectious, and soon Jane was joining in..

Maybe it would work out, after all.

Just maybe.


	30. 30

"It is raining cats and dogs, Penny, what do you _want _me to do?"

"_I dunno, use your magic doctor powers?" _The tech analyst demanded, clearly pouting – Jane was reluctantly charmed by her friend's worry. "_C'mon, Janey. I don't like you being out on your own like this, not in the middle of nowhere."_

"Penny, you worry too much," Jane shook her head, scanning the empty terminal. "So the planes are all grounded, so what? This place is practically empty, and Hotch filled out the paperwork so I have my gun. Just chill out and focus on getting some coding done or something. I'll be back before you know it."

"_I hate these stupid consulations you do," _Garcia grumbled. "_This is what you get for being so good at your job. You should stop that, it would make me feel better."_

"You would like me to _stop_ being good at my job?" Jane rolled her eyes, kicking aside her bag to flop down on the uncomfortable airport chair-bench-thing. "Run that by Rin, won't you? And I committed to this months ago, Penny. I'm a woman of my word."

Garcia's response was blowing her a raspberry and hanging up. Mature.

Jane shoved her phone into her jacket pocket, burying her fingers into the light green scarf that was shoved her way before she left for the consult in Bumfuck, Nowhere. Seriously, did anyone actually _live _in Montana, or was it just one _tiny _town (that needed a _major _overhaul on their forensic system) and a fuckton of grain?

At least they managed to put that sick motherfucker behind bars for good, in the end. God, she hated testifying – by far her longest consult yet.

She scanned the lobby again, looking over the people there. A family of four was curled up and trying to sleep on the other side of the terminal at a different gate, and a lone man was clicking away at a laptop not too far from them. A woman with a frankly enormous pile of hair was chatting loudly and obnoxiously on her cellphone a seat or two over from him, and Jane's ears twinged in sympathy. Seriously, Jane was across the _room_ and she could still hear each and every one of her high pitched complaints. Not pleasant.

No one was at her gate with her, luckily, and for obvious reasons. Perks of having funding for a private plane, she supposed. Jane just hoped that the team didn't need the jet while she was stuck here, grounded. It wasn't even noon yet, but the airport PA said they were in it for the long haul.

Sighing, she pulled out her paperwork and started to get some forms done. If she was stuck away from the office with nothing to do but work, she might as well get some of it out of the way.

* * *

Dave looked on as Penelope flitted between Reid and Morgan with an excited flare, bouncing ideas and concepts and comments rapidfire off the two men. They were both wearing similar mugs of bewilderment, with Reid's falling more under the classification of 'confused' with Morgan's more bemused in turn. But the whirlwind that was their Technical Analyst was nowhere close to winding down.

" – and _then_ we need to figure out some more of Mari's favorite foods, and we can get JJ to come over and it can be like before the DOJ _stole_ her and we can update Jayje on how Jane's doing and Hotch can bring Jack. OOH! Reid, you said that – "

"What's going on here?" Emily came up beside him, tearing Dave's attention away from Garcia's mania.

"Gacia found out that this coming Saturday is Mari's birthday," Dave confided in her lowly, not wanting to draw attention. "Apparently, Jane's never remembered a birthday celebration, hasn't even remembered having a _birthday. _It's down on her forms as January 1st for formality's sake."

"She's _never_ had a birthday party?" Emily echoed, bewildered. "Did we miss it last year? Or, hell, any year before that?"

"We didn't know yet, last year," Dave shook his head. "And I think it just slipped everyone's mind since Jane never thought of herself as _having_ a birthday. But Garcia's determined."

"Wait, Saturday," Emily's gaze flicked to the ceiling as she tried to remember the date.

"The 14th," Dave supplied, sympathetic. "August 14th."

"How old is she turning?" Emily frowned, eyebrows pinched.

"She'd be …" He had to think about it. "Thirty?"

"Thirty-one," Garcia whipped around to face them, hands on colorful hips. "And that means that we missed the big three-zero so we _have_ to make up for it."

"That's so weird," Emily shook her head, propping back against a desk. "I'm so used to thinking of her as 36-ish, not … well, _Reid's_ age."

"Hey!" The genius protested, which was soundly ignored.

"Feeling old?" Morgan cocked an eyebrow at Emily instead, and Dave was distracted from Emily's scathing reply by the ringing of his phone.

He excused himself.

"Agent Rossi," He answered, stepping away to hear better.

"_Agent Dave Rossi?" _A woman's voice came through. "_This is Detective Kirkland, with the MPD. We found your card at a crime scene of an unidentified male shot to death in the last week."_

"On a _body?"_ Rossi jerked his chin, frowning. "Unidentified?"

"_No ID or wallet found on him,"_ The detective confirmed. "_But your card was in an inner coat pocket. Would you be able to come down and identify him?"_

"Of course," Dave nodded. "Just get me an address."

* * *

Robert Leon was dead.

Dave could scarcely believe it. Didn't _want_ to believe it, because that meant that one more link to Mari Ryden was gone. Because that meant that Rob never got to have the same relationship he had with Jane again. He would never even be able to see Jane Hart's first birthday party.

It wasn't fair.

"I take it you know him?" The slim woman, who introduced herself as Detective Kirkland, nodded at where Rob was on the ground.

"Robert Leon, I knew him from a case," Dave sighed, scrubbing at his jaw. "We became friends afterwards. He must've had that card in his jacket for the better part of a year."

"Lucky he had it," Kirkland frowned, tugging at her disposable gloves. "Any idea what he was doing in a place like this?"

'A place like this' referring to the high end hotel that even _Dave_ was having difficulty understanding the appeal of. Yes, there was gold leaf on the ceiling, and the whiskey on the mahogany end table was three times his age, but it was entire too … _pristine._

Other than Rob's blood staining the expensive carpet, that is.

"No idea," Dave sighed. "It took a week for staff to find him?"

"The do not disturb sign was up, and the room was only meant to be cleaned and turned over today," She confirmed grimmly. "We estimate that he died eight days ago."

Eight days in a hotel room this fancy … that would've cost a pretty penny.

"He wasn't the kind of person to spend money on a place like this," Dave spoke aloud. "Who rented the room?"

"Room was under the name of a Marisole Hart," Kirkland read off her pad, and Dave' heart jumped. "That mean anything to you?"

* * *

"_The old man hasn't checked in."_

"What?" He asked, phone pressed to his ear – shifting so the people nearby couldn't hear his words. "What do you mean he hasn't checked in? He was supposed to meet you, wasn't he?"

"_He was, but he wasn't at the usual spot. He wouldn't miss it, he was eager for an update – especially since we have it all planned for today. Andy, he wouldn't do anything stupid – it's all happening _today."

"What would make him change his pattern?"

"_I don't know, and I don't like it," _Vine replied, and he could hear her gritted teeth. "_But Rob's smart. He wouldn't do anything stupid."_

"Yeah," Andy agreed, not feeling convinced. "He wouldn't do that."

* * *

After Hotch and Rossi had rapidly gathered everyone into the round table room, Rossi caught everyone up to speed.

All Aaron could do was thank his spotty luck that at least Jane wasn't here. He didn't know what he'd do if Jane was here, right now. On this case.

The thought didn't bear thinking about.

"He died after a clip was emptied into his chest – fifteen rounds," Dave sighed, wrapping up, and Hotch felt a sympathetic twinge of his own as the older man rubbed at his temples. "He died from the first shot, straight to his heart."

"Overkill," Morgan stated flatly.

"His wallet was gone, so was his phone," Rossi finished with a low voice. "Nothing on his person but my card, which was in an inner pocket and probably just got overlooked."

"The local LEOs have passed this off to us due to the relation Rob had …" Hotch sighed, not eager to address the elephant in the room. "Because this may tie back to the Colemyer Massacre."

They all took that in.

"Does he have any other family?" Emily asked, looking sick. "Anyone we need to call?"

'_Other than Jane?'_ She didn't say.

"No, no one like that," Dave shook his head.

They contemplate in silence for a moment longer. The air is thick before Hotch shakes himself out of his stupor.

"Garcia, I need you to find out who _really_ rented that hotel room," He ordered, watching the Tech Analyst snap back into focus. "If it isn't who killed him, they are at the very least a witness."

"On it," Garcia nodded, eager to get to work – and to get out of the room. "Right away, sir."

In the wake of her exit, Hotch breathed in deeply, preparing for action as if this was just another case. Just another case.

"Dave, I need you to go to his apartment – you knew him best, you'll know what's out of place. Take Morgan," He ordered, bracing himself. "Reid and Emily, to the morgue. I want to know what you can about how he died and what he was doing before he ended up in that hotel room."

"And you?" Emily asked, frowning.

"I'm going to find Des Liber," Hotch straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "With Robert dead, the issue of proxy for Colemyer is up in the air. With a company as large as Colemyer, we can't afford to wait."

* * *

"Do you mind …?"

Jane looked up at the man standing over her – about her age, or maybe older, with a neatly trimmed goatee and sleek dreadlocks. Her fingers halted at her laptop's keyboard as he smiled sheepishly at her.

"I'm sorry to bother you, since you're clearly working," He grinned self-deprecatingly. "But that woman's been gabbing on her phone for the past hour and I really, _really _just needed to get away from that."

"I get it," She smiled wryly at him. "With all flights grounded for a while, you don't need to stick to your gate. Take a seat, if you like."

"Thanks," He smiled at her, setting down his bag and settling across the slim aisle from her. "I appreciate it. I'm Drew."

"They call me Jane," She replied in kind, shuffling her legs to relieve a cramp. "I hope you're not in crisis due to the grounding?"

"Nah, not really," He laughed, a very attractive laugh. "I've a wedding I was mostly going to out of obligation – my cousin I've'n't talked to for years. No cake here, but at least the company's better."

Jane smiled, closing her laptop and dropping it into her bag. Maybe this night wouldn't be so boring after all.

* * *

"What are we going to tell Jane?" Morgan asked before he could catch the words in his throat.

Rossi turned at his question, but Morgan couldn't force himself to look away from a framed photo of the Rydens to face the older man.

"How do you mean?" Dave non-replied, returning to his own breakdown of the apartment – stepping into the next room.

"Rossi," Morgan scrubbed a hand across his face, shoving back the hurricane of emotions in his throat. "She's going to remember one day – or at least believe us one day. And I believe that. I _have to_ believe that."

"And when she does, what are we going to say." Rossi finishes his train of thought, voice pitched to carry. His tone was so flat it didn't even sound like a question. "How are we going to tell her that the one person she had left is gone."

Morgan forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He pokes through the kitchen.

"Do you notice anything off?" He slips into profiler-mode. "Anything not like how you last saw it?"

Rossi steps back into the main room, spinning slowly in place and scanning the room – taking it all in.

"Nothing," He shook his head, scratching at his scruff. "Rob wasn't a neat freak, but everything was ordered. Just like it is here. Same with the rest of the apartment."

"Anything else?" Morgan studied the crease between Rossi's eyebrows.

Rossi sighed deeply, wearily. "The gun safe is untouched."

Silence.

"His things …" Morgan cleared this throat. "What are we going to do with his things?"

"Rob'll have a will," Rossi reluctantly answered, turning to the door. "Not that it'll really matter much. Probably all going to Jane, anyway."

Morgan nodded, but out of the corner of his vision … something caught his eye.

Right next to a photo of Arthur Ryden, with Gabriel and Casey tucked under his arms. A small dish with a chain and a dull gold signet ring threaded on.

He stepped forward to pick it up, turning it over in his fingers. A college ring, a crest – Brown's. Probably belonged to Jane's dad.

And he doesn't know what comes over him, but he slips the cool chain over his neck and tucks the ring under the collar of his shirt for safekeeping.

* * *

Aaron was fed up.

He sighed, massaging his temples – glad he thought to close his door and crack his windows a bit. Frustration was making his office entirely too stuffy.

A knock at his door brought him out of his stupor.

"Come in," He called, straightening.

Garcia barreled through the door with less than her usual grace and color, a frown marring her perfectly painted lips. A file was clutched tightly in her bejeweled grip.

"Sir," She greeted, frown set firmly in place. Her fingers were bone white around the file in her hand, glittery rings starkly contrasted against the bloodless skin. "See, I did what you said. I looked into the credit card that was used to rent the room – only it wasn't a credit card, it was paid for using those travel miles that companies accumulate after they rent a bunch of hotel rooms – like a buy fifty get one free deal. So I tried to see what name was _associated_ with that deal, like who bought all the other hotel rooms, and it came up as the _Colemyer Estate."_

Garcia then, having said that all in one breath, took a sharp and deep inhale in order to continue.

"So I said: 'okay, let's look at surveillance' and looked into who was actually _there,"_ Garcia hands him the file in her hands, still frowning. "And those are some shots I printed but … well, that's all of it."

Hotch opened the file, looking through the images. One of Rob leaving his apartment with a frown on his face, locking the door behind him. The next Rob arriving in the lobby and stopping to talk to the concierge. The last of Rob entering the elevator, an internal shot. The time stamp was 30 minutes before the estimated time of death.

Three photos. A half hour gap.

"What do you mean this is all you have?" Hotch asked, flipping back through the images. It was unlike Garcia to be so … not thorough. "This is next to nothing."

Garcia grimaced even further, and it was unusual and unpleasant seeing such a negative look on their bubbly Analyst's face. "See, The Royal Waters? The hotel? It is fancy and nice as a front, but it's the kind of place that really rich politicians do a lot of not very good things. So … well, the plans say that there's a back entrance that's completely unaccounted for by the cameras, and there are entire floors with no surveillance."

"Including the one Rob was killed on," Hotch guessed, his headache coming back full force. "So we have nothing."

"Sorry, sir," Garcia grimaced. Clearly trying to change the subject, she gestures to his phone. "Any luck contacting Ms. Liber?"

"Actually, I was hoping you could help with that," Hotch passed his contact book to the Tech Analyst. "I tried all of these numbers, and nothing. I keep getting stonewalled, or getting busy signals or answering machines. Can you get me Liber? Here or on the phone, I have no preference. I just need to talk to her. This involves her."

"Yes, sir," Garcia nodded and clipped out of his office, just as Hotch's phone rang.

* * *

Robert Leon was dead. And if this was any other case, any other day, then Jane would be the one standing over his dead body.

Reid felt a bit sick thinking about it.

"Could you tell anything about where he'd been before he was killed?" Emily was asking, and Spencer half-tuned in while he studied Rob's face for the last time.

"From what I can tell, he had coffee and toast and then headed straight for his death," The ME that Reid had never met before answered, but he only half pays attention.

Because on Rob's face…

"Someone slapped him."

"What?" Emily shifts her focus, following his line of sight. "How can you tell?"

"The scratches, right there," Reid gestures with his gloved pinky, leaning closer to confirm. "Light abrasions, but definitely present. Someone with long nails and narrow hands."

"Long nails?" Emily repeated, bewildered. "We haven't started the profile yet …"

"But long nails and narrow hands implies female," Spencer finished her thought, grim. "We're looking for a woman who is at least involved in this."

"Or possibly even our unsub," Emily pulled out her phone, dialling Hotch.

* * *

They all gather in the bullpen, and the grim determination in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"So what do we have?" Hotch stands by the board, unable to sit with so much restless energy in his bones. He can tell that the team is similarly unsettled.

"Well, we've got an unsub with a .40 caliber handgun with a fifteen bullet magazine, all of which were fired close to point blank directly into Robert's chest," Reid rattles off, words rapidfire. "My guess would be a Glock 22, but that's just speculation."

"Whoever it was got Rob to meet him in an unfamiliar location," Rossi added, twisting a pen between his fingers. "Rob was a vet. He wouldn't go somewhere where there was no familiar ground, and he left his gun in his house. He trusted whoever was there."

"And a woman is involved somehow," Emily added. "Someone with long fingernails slapped Rob across the face at some point before he died. With no sexaul component, the woman could very well be our unsub."

"So a woman, who Rob would trust, who knows that Mari is Jane," Garcia scratched idly with a feathered pen at her spare stationary. "And on top of all this we still haven't located Liber."

"Still?" Reid's face scrunched as he turned to face her. "Even you can't find her?"

"Your well placed faith in my genius is touching," Garcia quips weakly. "But she's impossible to reach. Her secretary says that she's away on business. Do you think she's the unsub?"

"But what reason would Liber have to kill Rob?" Emily asked, not convinced. "She could be, but she's made a lot of money with the partnership the two of them have because of Jane."

"Maybe something went south," Morgan offered, sitting back. "The partnership was going well, but something could've gone wrong."

"I think we're jumping too far ahead here," Rossi backtracked, standing to approach the board where Rob's death was pinned. "Think. Who else would know about Jane being Mari? Booking the room under the name Marisole Hart was a pretty clear message: 'I know too.'"

"Well Liber, Rob, and everyone in this room," Morgan offered.

"Plus JJ, Strauss, and Rhys and Kyle Olivier," Reid added.

"So the women in that list are JJ, Struass, Liber, and Garcia and I," Emily smiled wryly, but Hotch couldn't help but think that someone was missing from the list. "I hope you don't mind me striking myself off the list."

"So if it's not JJ, Strauss, me or Em," Garcia turned to face Hotch. "That only leaves Liber."

No, it didn't.

"And one more," He shook his head, uncrossing his arms to brace against the table. "Garcia, find where Mallory Sosa is right now."

* * *

"So your coworker really said that? To your boss' _boss?"_

"Yes, she _did!"_ Jane smiled widely, amusement fueled by Drew's laughter. "So I'm standing there, right next to the _active volcano,_ and I'm trying to figure out if I need to duck for cover or run or _something,_ because it was _not_ a safe place to be!"

"So what happened?" Drew pressed, leaning forward in his seat, eyes laughing. "C'mon, your boss must've flipped her top!"

"She _did,"_ Jane's voice dropped, secondhand embarrassment rising as she pressed a hand over her eyes. "Penny told me later that apparently Boss Woman sent her a strongly worded memo…"

"Yes...?" He leaned forward, eyes bright.

"Oh god, it was so awful – a strongly worded memo on 'fraternization in conjunction with the inappropriate allocation and use of resources," Jane choked the words out, a stitch in both of her sides. "And I'm like 'Pen, you got off easy – do you know how quickly Boss Woman would fire you if you were any less good at your job?!'"

"Oh that's horrible," Drew calmed himself down from busting a gut laughing. "Okay, I can't top that. No way can I top that."

"Ha! I win!" Jane stuck her tongue out at him. "_You_ have to buy us shitty coffee now."

"As her majesty commands it," Drew stood to bow dramatically. "Okay, what's your order."

"The most expensive thing on the menu," Jane responds reflexively, before snorting. "I'm kidding. Tall and black."

"Oh Ms. Jane," Drew leaned forward, emphasizing his height over her with a teasing leer. "If you're looking, you just have to ask."

"Creep," She laughed, brushing him off with equal good humor. "Just go get me some coffee before I banish you back to the land of ginormous hair and loud phone calls."

"Aaaaaaas yooooooooou wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiish," Drew drew out, walking away to the Starbucks with a dramatic flair.

"Dork," She snorted, shrugging off her jacket and settling down to wait.

* * *

"Mallory Sosa …" Garcia pounds away at her keyboard – before her fingers freeze. "Oh."

"What is it, Baby Girl?" Morgan sits forward.

"It's just …" Garcia swallows roughly. "Mallory Sosa is dead."

"_What?"_ Emily and Rossi chime at the same time, incredulous.

"Found dead in her home," She began to type again, pulling up police reports left and right. "With … with fifteen bullets lodged in her chest. Handgun, .40 caliber. This was three days ago."

Two dead. One more and it would be serial.

"Only days after Rob was killed," Rossi connected, face profile-y grim.

"Why are we only now hearing about this?" Hotch asked, eyes locked on a spot on the far wall.

"She went back home, to Nebraska – completely different jurisdictions," Garcia swallowed, forcing herself to scan the police report. "It was a one off – the police declared it a robbery gone wrong. They have no suspects."

"Sounds like a hit, not a robbery," Reid commented, lips twisting.

Garcia quickly sent all the files to everyone's personal devices, feeling sick.

"So whoever this unsub is, they've killed two people directly tied to this case," Emily summarized grimmly. "That means that everyone who has ties to this case are potential targets – including us."

"Not just the case, it's the coverup _specifically,"_ Morgan frowned. "Mallory Sosa was targeted out of all the other Numbers for a reason – she wasn't Mari, and knew who was. She knew who _Jane_ was."

"And whoever this unsub is, they know too," Reid bit his lip.

"What's the chance we're looking at the orignal unsub here?" Emily asked the room. "Is this the same person who killed the Colemyers in the first place?"

"Let's assume it is," Rossi allowed. "What does that say?"

"The Colemyers were killed by a series of hired hits," Hotch answered, intimately familiar with the case. "If we're looking at the same unsub, they may be whoever hired the hits in the first place. But for whatever reason, they're taking matters into their own hands now."

"It could be that they are reluctant to fall back into old habits for a crime they already got away with," Reid offered, flipping through a folder of photos. "Or perhaps funds are tighter now than they were before. Hiring hits doesn't come cheap."

"Part of it may be time," Morgan offered, looking through the files that Garcia sent them. "Robert's murder doesn't scream in the moment, but it's not carefully as planned as Mallory's was – we only linked her because we thought to check if she was our unsub. If we hadn't, we'd never know that she died. And whoever hired those hits was meticulous with their planning, and that isn't present here."

"So what changed?" Emily asked, picking at her fingernails as she scanned the reports too. "Why kill them? Like Reid said, this unsub has gotten away with this crime for over 15 years – why start killing again now?"

"Maybe _because _they were no longer getting away with it," Reid murmured, standing suddenly. "What if someone was onto them? Garcia, can you access Robert's phone calls? Going back six months, at least. Cut it off at a year – since he's met Jane."

"Sure …" Garcia trailed off, confused. The rest of the room stayed silent, letting their resident genius make the conclusions he needed. "What am I looking for?"

"Anything that stands out," Reid answered her, shuffling in place behind her. "Repeated numbers without contacts, burner phones, extremely long or short phone calls."

"Okay, we got … no less than ten burner phones used to call Rob's number," Garcia's fingers flew, rattling off what she found. "Most top out at a minute, and they're on a bi-weekly schedule, it looks like..."

"And Mallory Sosa?" Reid asked.

She pulled up the reports.

"Same thing," She reported grimmly.

"So both Rob and Mallory were calling someone," Emily nodded. "Someone they didn't want to be connected to, hence the short phone calls and the switched numbers. Garcia, when did these calls start?"

"They started two weeks after Rob met Jane and Mallory stepped in as Mari," Garcia answered, looking up from her screen.

"Two weeks …" Reid repeated, staring at the date. "That was the fifteenth. Hotch, didn't Rob come in the next day? He brought in the notebook you asked him to put together."

"I remember that, it seemed reckless," Rossi nodded. "Rob seemed too careful for a slip up like that. I chalked it up to just nerves."

"Unless it wasn't just nerves," Hotch crossed the room to look over Garcia's shoulder, coming to a stop next to Reid. "Something happened between the time we last saw him at that meeting to when he came in that day. He talked to someone – maybe they both did – and whatever it was made him want to see Jane even more than before. Enough that he risked a reckless choice."

"What would've changed that drastically?" Morgan asked, turning to face Rossi. "We gave him so much information so quickly, I get that some of it may've hit late – but what would worry him _that much?"_

"We gave him information on Jane, but it had a lot of holes," Rossi pointed out, face set grimmly. "Think about it. If it was someone you lost, then _almost_ got back – what would it take for you to drop everything and risk it all? You never knew if they were dead or alive, they have no idea who you are, but you _have to see them. _And _now._ What would it take? What would you have to learn?"

Garcia felt even more sick. And like she wanted to cry.

"You would have to learn what happened to them," Emily answered in the silent room. "We never told Rob about Jane's scars."

"_We_ didn't," Hotch nodded, his face chiseled from stone. "But someone did."

"But who else knew?" Reid asked, face scrunched.

"Vine," Rossi immediately answered. "Vine knows."

Garcia felt her stomach drop.

"_Oh."_


	31. 31

She hadn't meant to speak. The sound just sorta slipped out before she could stop it, and then all eyes were on her.

"Garcia," Hotch rounded the table to lock eyes with her – face stern. "What aren't you telling us?"

"Oh, well, see …" She gulped. "Well, the thing is sir …"

"Penelope," Her Chocolate Adonis cut her off before she could make a fool of herself. "You're not in trouble. Just tell us what you know."

She took a deep breath.

"When I heard the name of Jane's friend, it sounded familiar," Garcia forced the words out, eyes on her hands. "But I dunno, Vine's not a completely unheard of name so I brushed it off as nothing."

The room was silent. She forced herself to keep talking.

"But then … well, Rossi mentioned that he didn't know if it was her first or last name," She forced herself to look up at the team. "And then Morgan said it sounded like a nickname, because Vine only ever called Jane 'Doe'."

"Garcia," Rossi asked. "Where did you hear the name before?"

"Before I joined the FBI," Garcia looked up at Hotch through her lashes.

"When you were a hacker," Hotch deadpanned.

"Wait, Vine is a _hacker?"_ Emily's jaw dropped. "Are you _sure?"_

"I wasn't!" Garcia exclaimed, hands up in surrender. "So I looked into it!"

"Start from the beginning," Rossi soothed her, shooting Emily a _look._ "Tell us about this hacker."

Deep breath.

"For the most part, the hacker 'vine' was small fry," Garcia gathered herself. "I mean, they were _good,_ but they didn't do much. Mostly hired theft and some low level data corruption. Nothing too bad, but they were careful. Never even got close to getting caught. I only really know about them because they … well, they did something kinda unheard of."

"What did they do?" Reid asked, eyebrows scrunched.

"They changed their handle," Garcia grimaced. "Look, hackers have handles – names – that they use to singal who they are. You don't diss, you don't mimic, and you definitely do not steal another hacker's handle. You do that, you're in _huge_ – mega-huge-ginormous – trouble. It's the ultimate no-no."

"It's so protected and valued that changing your handle is practically unheard of," Hotch crossed his arms. "So what did Vine change their handle to?"

"They used to be 'vine' as in just the word, no capitals," Garcia explained. "But about fifteen years ago, they changed it to 'IvysVine' with capital letters, no spaces, no punctuation."

"Ivy," Morgan repeated, flat. "Fifteen years ago."

"That's …" Garcia grimaced again. "That's why I looked into it. I'm not 100%, I honestly _can't_ be – but the reason the two handles were linked is because of the same hacking style. Methodical, meticulous, and close to impossible to trace. I'm honestly as sure as I _can _be."

"Capital letters implies a shift from a noun to a proper noun," Reid flexed his jaw, realization dawning in his eyes. "If before 'vine' was simply referring to a plant vine, then the shift to a name could be indicative of an emotional preference."

They all collectively sent him a sharp-slash-questioning look.

"Think of it like this," Reid's hands began to weave in the air. "If Jane were to lose her memories all over again, and she got to know us as friends again … what would she call us? Our names? It would feel strange, unnatural even, for her to call us 'Derek' or 'Hotchner' or 'Spencer' all the time. If we met all over again, what would we _ask _her to call us?"

"Rin," Hotch answered, face inscruitible. "Or LeFay, or Spinner, or whatever other nickname she gave us. Jane gives nicknames."

"Exactly! _Jane gives nicknames._ And I'll bet that Mari did too," Reid continued, nodding emphatically. "She doesn't give them often, but once she does they stick – so if Jane gave Vine her nickname, she would've honored that _and_ Mari's nickname in her new handle. Identifying herself not only as _Vine, _but the Vine that Ivy saw her as. _Ivy's Vine."_

"I hate to be the one to say it, but Vine's a woman," Morgan pointed out. "What's the chance she's our unsub?"

"What reason would she have to kill Rob then?" Hotch countered. "Or Mallory? Vine has made it clear that she values Jane, enough to put herself in our crosshairs. She helped Jane for a case _knowing _that she would end up on our radar."

"She would have no reason to cause Jane any more pain," Rossi nodded, agreeing. "Rob was all the family Jane had left, and Mallory was a favorite of Jane during the testing process."

"Assuming that Vine knew Mari, then _met_ Jane," Emily chose her words carefully. "Then she knows everything that Jane has gone through, possibly even better than we do. She wasn't surprised in Florida when she saw those scars.."

"She fits," Reid agreed. "Not as the unsub, but as the person on the other end of those calls."

"Maybe we're half right," Morgan offered. "Maybe Rob really _was_ going to meet Vine. But that also means that whoever was there _wasn't _who he expected."

* * *

Jane's halfway through her coffee and she doesn't think that the caffeine is kicking in.

She pulls down her long sleeves over her hands, scrubbing at her face with a yawn. Drew looks on amusedly.

"You know, if you need to conk out that's alright," He smiles charmingly at her. "I'll just get some work done, watch over your things."

"And me?" She cocks her head wryly. "My hero."

"Just doing my job, ma'm," He grins at her.

She shrugs, stretching out awkwardly on the seat the best she could, her jacket pillowed under her head.

The last thing she noticed before drifting off was Drew reaching into his bag for something …

* * *

Morgan wanted to punch a wall. And hug Jane. Not necessarily in that order.

"It's Liber," Hotch declares, firm, and Derek has to focus back onto the topic at hand. "Rob wouldn't trust anyone he didn't know, and if he arrived to meet Vine and got a complete stranger he would've turned right around. He got shot half an hour after he went up that elevator. He knew whoever was there, enough to stay."

"Liber also has access to the Colemyer accounts," Garcia offered, hesitant. "And she would've been able to keep her name completely off of the payment."

"And Liber is supposedly away on business, and has been for days," Emily added. "We've been unable to reach her all day."

"What does Liber stand to gain?" Rossi asked, frustrated. "And, assuming that she's also the Massacre's unsub, what did she stand to gain back then?"

"Prentiss, you said that Liber made money off of her partnership with Rob, right?" Morgan asked, a sick feeling curling in his. "How much money are we talking about here?"

"Tens of millions," Emily answered. "Liber climbed the food chain, and quickly. She's one of the only board members of the company from the old regime."

"Not only that, but she's in line for CEO," Hotch reported. "The deaths of the Colemyer's cleared the way for her to climb to the top, and now she's securing her spot."

"Hold on, profile or not we're going off of a lot of speculation right now," Morgan slowed them down. "We can investigate Liber for the fifteen year old murders wherever we want. What do we need to be doing _right now?"_

"Finding Liber and protecting any other targets," Reid answered promptly. "And that includes Jane."

Dammit, _Jane._ Who was still in fucking _Montana._

"Garcia, our list from earlier of people who know about the coverup," Hotch ordered. "Cross reference it with similar call histories to Sosa and Leon."

Morgan watched intently as his Baby Girl did her magic while the rest of the team continued to talk around her.

"We need to get Jane here, and fast," Rossi was saying. "In terms of people involved in the coverup, she's at the top of the list."

"Her plane's been grounded, she's not going anywhere – and Montana is too far to drive," Reid pointed out. "We can alert airport security to be on the lookout for anyone matching Liber's description just in case, though."

"Do you think she'll risk hiring a hit?" Emily asked. "She's certainly got the money for it."

"She's too methodical," Rossi countered. "She wouldn't risk anyone else being involved and spilling, not with the death of a federal agent on her hands."

"We'll get her back," Hotch spoke lowly. "And when she's here we can protect her."

"Uuuh, guys?" Garcia concluded her search, and his chin almost brushed her shoulder as he leaned forward to read her screen. "Of our list, Rhys Olivier alone also has similar activity, dating back to the same day as Rob and Mallory."

"He's the next target," Morgan growled. "Garcia, where is Olivier right now?"

"He and his husband live in Detroit," Garcia answered promptly. "No police activity at their address."

"Jane has the jet," Hotch gritted his teeth. "Rossi – go warn Strauss about the possible target on her back. Garcia – I need you to figure out everything you can about Liber and what she stands to gain or lose. Emily, you need to conclude what you can from Sosa's death and the similarities and differences to Robert's. Reid, figure out what you can from those burner phones and what they were communicating about. Morgan, try to get Olivier or his husband on the phone. You're staying behind with Garcia and Reid; meet Jane when she gets back."

They all stood.

"I'm going to go get us a plane."

* * *

"Jane," Someone was shaking her._ "Jane."_

She blinked her eyes open at … Drew?

"I really fell asleep, didn't I?" She yawned, feeling groggy. She pulled at her sleeve, which had bunched uncomfortably at her elbow, and scrubbed at her face.

"The planes are taking off again," Drew pulls her upright, pressing her satchel into her hands. His voice is gentle. "You need to go home, Dr. Hart."

She nods, pulling on her satchel and stooping to grab her go bag. Drew rested a hand on her shoulder, keeping her balanced.

"It's okay," He murmured, turning her to face the gate. "It's all going to be okay. You need to go back to your team now, Ivy."

She nods again, sleepily, and sends him a halfhearted wave.

When she gets on the jet, she's out in a second – too tired to focus on the itch of _wrong_ in what he had said.

* * *

"Updates," Hotch ordered once they were in the air. The laptop screen next to Emily flickered with movement as Morgan came into view next to Garcia, Reid flitting around in the background.

"Strauss isn't happy," Rossi started them off, and Emily did _not_ envy him for having _that_ conversation. "But she's not going anywhere and is staying on alert. It's in our hands now."

_"No luck getting Rhys or Kyle on the phone,"_ Morgan added on the tail of that. _"I alerted local LEOs to be on alert, and they're sending units to the house. They'll keep us updated. And according to the pilot, Jane just boarded to come home to us."_

A curl of tension eased in her gut; she was safe, at least for now.

"No forced entry in either crime scene," Emily contributed. "Same gun, same MO, same complete lack of prints. Same unsub, and at this point it's looking more and more like Liber. Who else would target_ these_ two people states away – would be let in the door at Sosa's and wouldn't immediately scare Leon off?"

"Do you have enough to get a warrant?" Rossi asked, eyes narrowed sharply.

"Oh, I think I can swing it," Emily bared her teeth. Like _hell_ was Liber getting away with this – not with so much evidence and their profile. "Especially when Garcia adds whatever she found."

_"And oh _boy _did I find things," _The Tech Analyst's voice came through the laptop. _"So it turns out that Desalee Winifred Liber is the kind of lowkey skeezy, sad, and depressing that lawyers are in movies and tv shows and whenever they become unsubs. Like, seriously –"_

"Garcia." Hotch cut her off.

_"Sorry, sir," _She brought herself back on track._ "But seriously, her life reads like a true crime novel. She was born and raised in a small town on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado; she was an only child, but only because her parents had a_ bunch _of miscarriages before she was born, and after – right up until her father died of leukemia when she was eight. They couldn't afford the treatment."_

Loss of the father, grief of the mother. Money troubles. Not good.

_"Her mother remarried when she was nine, a man named Carlton Jackson. Jackson, at the time, was wanted for questioning in connnection to the murder and rape of several prepubescent girls in Nevada – Liber fit the type."_ Garcia frowned deeply, unhappy. _"When she was ten, Jackson died under 'unfortunate circumstances' – which in this case is cop code for 'he had a shotgun fired into his chest multiple times but he was in the woods during hunting season so no one knows who killed him or if it was even on purpose.' And, get this: it was the second time he'd been shot due to a 'hunting accident.'"_

_"Could've been Liber," _Reid offered from behind her. _"Similar MOs – if she was one of Jackson's victims she could've killed him to protect herself."_

_"Yes, thank you, 187 – let me talk,"_ Garcia fired back at him. _"After Jackson's death her mom worked four jobs trying to keep the mortgage from drowning them, and it was only due to sudden and 'unexplainable' additions to their bank account that they were able to keep afloat. My money is on prostitutuion."_

Emily grimaced, locking eyes with Rossi. This all added up to the perfect breeding ground for a money driven sociopath.

_"She got stellar grades, and her academic years are mostly clean. She got a scholarship to Brown, stayed for law school, and graduated summa cum laude before bouncing around multiple firms – eventually landing a spot at Colemyer as a contract lawyer. She rose through the ranks quickly."_

"And what did she stand to gain?" Hotch asked, face set in a flat, extremely _dangerous_ expression. "Why would she kill the Colemyers?"

_"That's far less clear cut," _Garcia apologized, face set in concentration. _"But what I _do _know is that before the death of the Colemyers came the death of one of the senior lawyers, Christina LaCreek, who was directly above Liber. She was killed in an alley close to her apartment with fifteen bullets emptied in her chest. Her purse and jewelry were gone, so it was declared a robbery, and some local gangbangers were arrested for the murder – charges were later dropped due to insuficiant evidence."_

LaCreek, Leon, Sosa. Three dead. Serial.

"She kills the lawyer to take her place, then when the Colemyers are massacred she's the one calling the shots," Rossi mused. "She was an outsider, everyone who outranked her within the company died with their families."

_"I still don't know why she pushed for fifteen years, however," _Garcia pointed out with frustration. _"But rest assured, I will not stop until this sad psycho is laid bare to me, you have my word."_

"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Anyone else? Reid?"

The genius abandoned the boards he was staring at and stepped closer to Garcia's webcam.

_"Based off of these messages, it seems to me that whoever was communicating with Sosa, Leon, and Olivier was doing so primarily in person," _Reid summarized with a thousand mile gaze. _"Or, at least, everything of substance was discussed in person. Calls seem to be short and scheduled, with only occasional deviations. I would assume that these are to confirm meeting times and serve as check-ins."_

"Any indication on why Rob was in that hotel room?" Rossi asked, craning his head to get a better view of the screen. "Any messages, calls, emails?"

_"Yes, in fact,"_ Reid confirmed grimmly. _"Text messages seem rare, which would make sense if Vine is indeed the one on the other end. A hacker would know full well how easy it would be to spoof a text message."_

_"But Rob received one that day, right before he died," _Garcia cut in, ignoring Reid's pout.

_"One that asked him to meet Vine – or so he thought – at The Royal Waters,"_ Reid stepped back in, jogging Garcia with his elbow._ "Then Liber was there waiting for him."_

"Anything on _why_ they were communicating like this?" Hotch asked, refusing to dwell. "You said texts were rare."

_"Rare but still present,"_ Reid leaned back, fingers lacing in front of him. _"The best that I can tell is that the four of them – along with anyone else involved that we don't know about – were putting together some type of plan. One that required Sosa and Olivier to 'play their roles' and Leon to 'have their backs'. Whatever it is, they're being supremely careful about what they say to each other, and how they say it."_

"We can't worry about that now," Hotch declared reluctantly. "We need to focus on the problem at hand, Liber. We're currently assuming that she's going after Rhys and Kyle, but we need to be prepared for the chance that she's already come and gone – and the chance that she's actually after Jane directly instead."

"Jane's flight will land right after yours," Morgan assured them. "Reid and I will be there when it does."

* * *

_"Agent Hotchner?"_

"Yes, this is he," Hotch confirmed, grabbing his go bag as he hurried off the plane.

_"This is Lieutenant Al Garner, Detroit PD," _The man continued through the other end of the line. _"Agent Morgan gave us your number to update you on the Oliviers."_

"Yes, he did," Hotch made his way behind Emily as they plowed through their terminal. "Do you have any news?"

_"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Rhys Olivier is dead. We didn't get there in time."_

Hotch came to a halt, closing his eyes in a brief moment. Another dead.

"And his husband, Kyle Olivier?"

_"He's alive, but in bad shape,"_ Garner reported, his low voice firm and even. _"I'm sending you the address of the hospital he's been taken to now."_

"I'll be sending Agent Prentiss to the Olivier house, Agent Rossi and I will meet you there."

* * *

He and Morgan were there the moment the plane touched down. They barely waited until the door was open and the stairs descended before they pushed their way on, eager to check on their doctor.

Who was fast asleep on the plane.

Beside him, Morgan let out a great sigh of relief; Reid had similar sentiments. She was _safe._ Nothing had happened.

Stepping forward to squat down in front of his fellow doctor, smiling faintly at how she was sprawled across the couch, he shook her shoulder to wake her up.

Nothing.

He tried again, harder this time.

_Nothing._

Something was wrong. Jane was a light sleeper, always had been. Unless …

"She's been drugged," Morgan spoke in sync with Reid's thoughts. "Shit. _When did she get drugged?"_

Reid quickly turned her onto her back, checking her airways and then pulling back her eyelids. She was fine, just out. He patted her down, looking over her neck and then pushing up here sleeves –

_There._

"Someone stuck a needle in her arm," He reported, fingers ghosting over the vein in Jane's inner arm. "Possibly how they drugged her."

"We need to get her out of here," Morgan growled. "Somewhere safe."

"Her house?" Reid offered, but then was already dismissing the thought. Too dangerous, if they – whoever _they _were – knew she was in Montana, then they knew where she lived.

"Back to the bullpen," Morgan counter suggested. "Jane has a cot in her room that she can sleep whatever this is off on."

"What about a hospital?" Reid asked. "A doctor?"

"Not until Liber is caught," Morgan scooped Jane up, nodding for Reid to grab her bag. "Quantico is far more secure. And I am sick and tired of people coming after our Doc. She's _ours_ now, no one else can have her."

Vaguely possessive, but Reid agreed wholeheartedly.

* * *

After Morgan ended the call, Penelope immediately dove into the interwebs – choking back the vomit that wanted to build in the back of her throat.

It was unacceptable. It was _her job_ to protect Jane, to look out for her team when they were too far away for Hotch or Rossi or anyone else to get to. She had _checked in on her._ She had! And she _missed it._

But she went back to the tapes, looking over the airport cameras again. Fingers locked and loaded, she readied to speed or pause as the feed played.

Jane walked in, settled at her gate. Everyone looked up as the PA went off – presumably, there was no sound. Jane settled down to work, time passes –

The man who Garcia had seen earlier. Taking a phone call, then hanging up. Waiting a couple minutes then gathering his stuff and _making his way over to Jane._

Unacceptable.

He says something, looking _charming._ She says something back. They talk, they _laugh._

He walks away to get coffee, flirting with her.

Unacceptable.

He comes back, they drink, Jane falls asleep –

Wait.

Garcia goes back, looking for other angles. Caffeine keeps Jane awake without fail, mainly because she rarely ever drinks any. Coffee keeps her up,_ always._ That wasn't right.

She finds a camera in the Starbucks. Sees him ordering coffee, ordering _two._ Placing his back to the camera and shielding whatever he was doing from it …

But not the ATM across the hall.

She hacks in, barely takes a moment, and _there._

He's dumping something into one of the cups. _Jane's_ cup.

He's drugging her.

_Unacceptable._

She jumps back to where she left off on the main feed, heart in her throat. She speeds through until Jane's soundly asleep and drugged up to her ears and the man is crouching beside her, pushing up her sleeve –

Was he _drawing blood?_

Carefully, Garcia zooms in and enhances the image. He _is._ Drawing two, three, _five_ blood samples, all the small size tubes – like when you get your cholesterol levels tested. _Five blood samples?_

What the hell …?

He finishes and settles back, _watching her._ A security guard walks past, asks the man something, and then walks away.

Everyone looks up as a boarding announcement goes off, and the man shakes Jane awake, gets her upright, and pushes her towards her gate.

He waits until she's boarded and departed before he turns around and walks right out the door, past security and right onto the street.

Montana's dismal lack of cameras means she loses him soon after that.

**_Unacceptable._**

* * *

When she came to she was in someone's arms.

She kept her eyes closed, counted the heartbeats.

_Morgan._

"Hey," He spoke softly when her eyes fluttered open. "Thought you'd be out a little longer."

"Jus' tired," She slurred. "Why'm'I so tired?"

"Don't worry about it," Morgan soothed her, the walls of Quantico passing by them as he walked. "We're just gonna camp out in your office, let you sleep."

Jane slipped back into unconsciousness, the familiar rhythm of her brother's beating heart bringing her down to sleep.


	32. 32

"Baby girl, what did you nee–"

Morgan's works screech to a halt when he sees the veritable _fury_ on his friend's face. Holy hell, when the Black Queen was _this pissed?_

Heads _rolled_.

"Penelope, what's wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong, Derek Morgan," She _hissed_, flitting between the CCTV pictures posted up on her walls. "What's _wrong_ is that this Vine is good. Very good. Better-than-I-gave-her-credit-for good. So good, in fact, that I want to shake her hand before I ram her into a _wall._ And _then_ I want to _interrogate _her on just _how she got this good!"_

"Whoa, whoa," He tried to placate her. "What happened?"

_"What happened _is that this guy –" She jabs a finger at a black man dressed smartly in a suit with a sleek pile of dreadlocks "– Does not exist. He used cash to pay for his drugged coffee, used a fake ID to get through TSA_,_ never even _boarded _the plane to Cheyenne, and has been _cleanly wiped _from _any _database I have run his face though. He doesn't exist! At all! _Oh,_ and guess what? I had a bad feeling, so I checked – the weather was _fine._ Totally fine, she could've flown home. But _nooooooooo, _Vine just _had_ to hack the _airport's weather service!"_

"He's the guy who drugged Jane?" Morgan was still catching up. "With _coffee?_ But Jane has a mark on her arm from a needle."

"And that's because he _took her blood,"_ She gestured emphatically at another image. "Just straight up _took_ it. And I saw a security guard come over, because _drawing blood_ is not a normal thing to do in a public place when you are not a doctor. And I called him, and guess what? This well-dressed _hunk _with _freaky good hacker backup_ just told him that his wife had diabetes and he _didn't want to wake her._ And that _worked."_

"So he was charming enough to get close to Jane without setting off her radar, and charismatic enough to make the guard back off," Morgan frowned, grinding his jaw. "What would he need her blood for?"

"I don't know – that's your department!" Garcia threw her arms up into the air. "Maybe he's a vampire. Or he's a creepy unsub who likes to bathe in blood, or sacrifice virgins, or prey on beauty, or _whatever else_ these creepies do."

Garcia's voice broke, and she sobbed – pressing her hands to her face.

"Derek, I am _so done_ with people coming after Jane! _So. Done. _How many times has she been kidnapped or drugged or gone missing or _whatever_ because she's reckless or selfless or part of some 'master plan'?! I am _sick of it!"_

"Me too, Baby Girl," Morgan sighed, pulling her close. "Me too."

* * *

"Emily just called with an update," Rossi updated Hotch when he hung up the phone, the both of them waiting for the administrator behind the counter to check over their forms in order to see Kyle Olivier. Well, technically, Kyle Olivier-Munson. "Says that there's no sign of forced entry at the house, no sign of a struggle. Her guess is that Liber knocked, got let in because of the gun in her hand, and after she got what she wanted killed Rhys. Fourteen bullets this time – she saved one for Kyle."

"Extreme overkill to … well, _under-_kill is odd," Hotch cocked his head. Rossi could see his gears turning. "Why wouldn't she kill them both? Or, rather, at least even out how many shots each."

The nurse looked up from her files, standing and gesturing for them to follow.

"Let's find out," Rossi muttered.

* * *

"Wait, Vine spoofed the data for the weather forecast?" Reid blinked rapidly at the update. "That would've taken _time _to create and manipulate the data so it wouldn't be immediately dismissed."

"What are you saying?" Morgan turned to face the genius.

"I'm saying that this Monatana thing was in the works for months," Reid's eyes were wide. "And it would've taken months to manipulate the data so subtly."

Morgan felt his jaw loosen with realization.

"Just how long have they been planning this?"

Reid just shook his head.

* * *

The short path to Kyle's room is lengthened by tension, but soon they arrive to see the man half-curled around the bullet wound in his side, an expression of pure misery on his face.

"Mr. Munson?" Rossi took the lead, letting Hotch hold back and observe. "My name is Agent Rossi, I'm not sure if you know of me. I work with Dr. Hart, with Mari."

Kyle's gaze swung to them, misery was so thickly painted across his features that Dave didn't have to be a profiler to spot it.

"Yeah," He nods, voice quiet. He winces, probably at the pull in his side from the movement. "Rhys –"

He cut himself off, voice cracking, before he seemingly gathered his courage to speak again.

"Rhys told me about you, and what you were doing with Rob."

Familiarity. Kyle knew about Rob – notable, but not damning.

"Mr. Munson –" Rossi began to ask, but Kyle cut him off.

"Olivier," Kyle insisted. "It's … it was my husband's name. Or – or Kyle."

"Kyle," Rossi began again. "Can you tell me who killed your husband? Who attacked you?"

"It was Liber, Des Liber," Kyle said with surety, guilt flaring on his face at the name.

Rossi clocked it immediately.

"And how did you recognize Liber when you saw her?" Hotch asked, and Kyle gulped. "Mr. Olivier, we need to know."

"Because I called her, a couple weeks ago," Kyle confessed, choking on his words. "Rhys and I got into a fight and …"

He fell silent.

Rossi switched tactics, turning his sympathetic face up to max. "Did you or your husband keep in touch with anyone else who might've known about Jane? About Mari?"

Kyle swallowed thickly, jaw flexing. Clenching.

"Kyle –"

"Yes," He answered, abrupt. "Rhys did. I only found out …"

He trailed off again. Rossi had to stop himself from shouting in the man's face – he just lost his husband, but Jane was still in danger. They _had_ to find Liber, and soon.

"That's why you fought," Hotch gathered, sliding his hands into his pockets with the epitome of ease. "It was about his frequent calls, his disappearances. He was keeping things from you."

"I thought he was_ cheating," _Kyle sobbed, and Rossi's heart grew heavy with each word, guilt at his own callousness rising. "I overheard him once, talking to someone, and I heard him talk about Liber. So I looked into her, realized who she was, and got so _angry –"_

"And you fought," Hotch finished for him. "And you called her, to confront her."

"I felt so _stupid,"_ Kyle sobbed, a hand on his side as he contorted with grief. "And she talked me down, lent me an ear. She's the reason I didn't move in with my sister – and now she's the reason my husband is _dead."_

"Mr. Olivier, did you ever learn what your husband's calls were really about?" Hotch pressed, stepping forward slowly. "Did you ever get an explanation?"

Kyle just shook his head.

* * *

"Garcia."

_"Yes, sir!"_ She immediately answered, picking up on the first ring. _"What can I do for you?"_

"We need to find Liber, we've confirmed she's our unsub," Hotch explained, putting the phone on speaker. "If she sticks to pattern, she's not going to stay around Detroit – she's going to head to her next target. That means she could be after anyone else directly involved with this plan Rob and Rhys were cooking up."

_"Meaning the ever-elusive Vine and her shady partner,"_ Garcia murmured, and Dave and Emily both looked sharply at the phone in Hotch's hands at her words.

"Garcia – what do you mean _partner?"_ Emily asked, eyes wide.

_"Oh, I thought that Morgan called you," _Garcia's apology pulsed through the line. _"Vine's not working alone. Some guy at the airport in Montana got close to Jane, drugged her, took her blood, and then sent her on her merry way. We went over the footage, but there's no ID on this guy. I'm sorry."_

"Then he's a target, too," Hotch plowed ahead, ignoring the fury that rose in his chest at the thought of Jane being drugged _again._ "Garcia, is there any chance you can track down Vine or the partner? Addresses, states, cell towers, _anything?"_

_"I'm sorry, but I can't. Not unless you can give me more to work on, and maybe not even then."_

"Okay, so we know that Liber found out about this plot from Kyle, who confronted her about it," Rossi began to think aloud, hands articulating in the air. "And she spoofed a text so that Rob would meet her at the hotel. After half an hour at the hotel, Rob gets shot and Liber goes on the hunt. First she kills Sosa, then she goes after the Oliviers but leaves Kyle alive."

_"How is she getting her information?"_ Reid asks, speaking up to mark his presence.

"And how is she getting around?" Emily adds.

"Garcia, I assume you've already checked flight records?" Hotch spoke up.

_"Yes, sir. No dice. Neither her name nor her picture have come up anywhere near any of the locations of our victims,"_ Garcia confirmed. _"And no Colemyer assets have been used – public or private flights, public or private airfields."_

"So if not a plane then how?" Rossi mused. "Between Virginia to Arkansas to Michigan, it's too far to drive."

_"Actually, it's not,"_ Reid corrects. _"Theoretically, with minimal stops for gas and rest, Liber would've been able to drive all the way from Virginia to Arkansas, and then Arkansas to Michigan in the time between kills. It would've been close, but if she was determined she would've made it."_

"That's an awful lot of driving," Emily pointed out. "And that means an awful lot of gas."

_"On it,"_ Garcia chimed in.

_"So that just leaves how she is getting these locations," _Reid points out as the sound of typing filters in behind him. _"Would Leon have told her?"_

"No, but he might not have had to," Rossi frowned, tugging at his goatee. "If he had his phone on him … phone and wallet were never recovered. Liber must've taken it, hacked into it."

_"Is she able to do that?" _Reid asked Garcia, voice slightly muffled. _"Does she have that skill set?"_

_"She has money, Reid, what else does she need?" _Garcia answers absently before pitching her voice to carry through to the rest of them. _"Got it, sir! The Colemyer Estate are heavy investors in a number of credit agencies – that number being four. And for one of them, a credit card under the name Desiree Liberty was filed for and used all within the last two weeks, solely for gas and food across the crappiest roads in our fine country."_

"And the last transaction?" Hotch asked.

_"Way ahead of you, sir,"_ Garcia was clearly grinning. _"Gas station on US Highway 12. Got her on camera, too. She's still wearing that suit."_

_"That heads to Chicago, almost a straight shot."_ Reid immediately elaborated. _"That's where she's headed – she wouldn't risk such a major highway with so many cameras if it wasn't."_

"You think her next target is in Chicago?" Emily asked, a tad incredulous. "Because of a highway?"

_"Vine's a tattoo artist by trade. She would stay in a large city; it would get her the most customers and also a level of anonymity – her popularity as a tattoo artist would be able to mask her activity as a hacker. Garcia, can you find African-American women with licenses for body art in the Chicago area?"_

"What makes you think she'll be licensed?" Hotch queried.

_"Her best friend is an FBI agent," _Reid half-laughed, though it's brittle. _"Wouldn't you be?"_

* * *

Jane was in his office, but Hotch wasn't there.

Why wouldn't he be there?

She wasn't asleep for that long, she was just out for the flight and maybe an hour or two before and after. It really wasn't that bad – she got a full night's sleep out of it.

Maybe they started on another case without her.

She poked through the files on Hotch's desk, parsing through photos.

There was a man, a dead man, who looked familiar. Maybe an old case? Security screenshots of him entering a hotel … shot of him dead in said hotel … autopsy photos …

She parsed through them absentmindedly. Nothing worth her time, a simple shooting.

Jane sighed, ditching the folder in favor of a second one on the desk, taking right from the top of the small, haphazard pile on her Unit Chief's workspace.

And she flipped it open.

* * *

"Got it!" Garcia exclaimed. "Amina Vite – Reid is this her?"

"Yes! It's Vine, Hotch, we found her." Reid exclaimed, eyeing the photo on the screen. "You guys, you're headed to Chicago. Garcia'll send you the address."

"I'll send you more than that!" The exuberant, energized woman countered, a manic grin growing across her face. "I'll get you the skinny on her while I'm at it!"

_"Good work,"_ Hotch's voice filtered through, an almost-smile carrying on his tone. _"Good work."_

Garcia beamed.

* * *

Morgan was in her office, but Jane wasn't there.

That was a lot more worrying than it should've been, honestly. He was going to put a GPS and a flippin' _bell_ on that woman. _Geez._

He tracked her down through the intensive method of checking Hotch's office. She was there, just standing beside his desk, case file in hand – staring intently at it with a pinched frown across her brow.

"Jane?" He asked carefully, after all these years recognizing when Jane was on the verge of remembering something. He tried to surreptitiously glance at the file. "Hey, Doc, you okay?"

She looked up at him, but he could tell that she wasn't really _seeing him._

"I know her …" Her voice is thready, as if her mind was elsewhere. "I _know_ her."

Morgan was finally close enough to see the file in her hands, and he had to stop himself from cursing at the image of Des Liber smirking up at them.

_Shit._

"I need you to give me that," Morgan told her gently, carefully avoiding using any names. "I need you to give that file to me, okay?"

"Where do I know her from?" She ignores him, stare returning to the picture. "I know her. She's bad. She's really, really –"

She cut herself off, and Morgan was prepared for anything. Screaming, crying, a breakdown, a panic attack – passing out, anything.

He was not prepared for the file to slip from her finger as a shaking hand reaching out oh-so slowly towards him.

He automatically brought a hand up, curled it around her wrist, but her movements were unimpeded as her fingers brushed at –

At the ring around his neck. The signet ring he got from Rob's house, the one belonging to Arthur Ryden – it must've slipped out from under his collar.

"That's not yours," She said, the tips of her fingers just brushing his sternum. "That's not yours, because that's …"

She trailed off, the hand not in his grip coming up to press against her temple. She whimpered, and Morgan had to step forward to slip an arm behind her back to steady her.

"Jane …" He tried, but she wouldn't look away from the ring, her fingers going limp and her eyes mere slits. He wetted his lips, swallowing – steeling himself. "Mari …"

Her eyes snapped up at him, eyes shining and red.

And quick as a flash she clenched her fist around the ring and ripped the chain from his neck.

* * *

When they were on the jet, speeding over to Chicago, Emily regurgitated the file as Rossi paced incessantly and Hotch did his best impression of a statue.

"Amina Vite –"

"Vite," Rossi cut her off, already off to a good start. "It's Italian. For 'vine.'"

Hotch shot him a look, then gestured for Emily to continue. She cleared her throat, glancing back over the files Garcia sent.

"Amina Vite, a 32 year old tattoo artist living on the south side of Boston – resident there her whole life. Dropped out of high school sophomore year, no college education, learned how to tattoo under her older brother, Daniel Vite."

Hotch looked over the picture of Daniel, Rossi stopping in his pacing to look over his shoulder.

"A tall black man with dreadlocks," Hotch commented, looking over the candid shot of Daniel perched on his Harley Davidson. "Like the man at the airport. The partner."

"Could it be him?" Rossi asked.

"No, because Daniel Vite is dead," Emily gave a tight smile. "Murdered. 15 bullets to the chest, .40 cal."

"Liber," Rossi deadpanned.

"Liber," Emily agreed. "Daniel was seven years older than Amina, and was 25 when he died, found dumped in an alley. No suspects. Jane would've been 17."

"Two tattoo artists, both of whom knew Jane when she was young," Rossi came to the same epiphany Emily had earlier. "One more skilled, one less … these are the artists who did Jane's ink. _That's_ why Vine wouldn't stick around to let us ask her about Jane's tats."

"Any indication on how Jane – on how _Mari_ met them? Or who the man is?" Hotch asked.

"Not that Garcia could find just yet," Emily shook her head. "But she's still looking."

"Any word from Chicago PD?" Rossi asked, glancing at his phone as if it held all the answers.

"Not yet," Emily reported grimmly. "They've had a rush of gang activity that's keeping the force occupied. They said they'd send units when they could."

"And when they do," Rossi snorted with gallows humor. "It may be too late."

* * *

"Mari –!" Morgan gasped, a hand flying to his neck – more in surprise then pain – before having to stumble after the jarred woman. _"Mari –!"_

But the doc was ignoring him, pushing past him before he could stop her and slamming open the office door – beelinning for the elevators out of the building.

"Mari," He catches up to her, tries to get in front of her. "Mari, what are –"

"Don't call me that." Her voice is soft, weary, fierce, _pleading._ Her posture was as if all the energy had been drained out of her.

"Jane," He tries instead. She winces, and he manages to get in front of her – stop her in place. "Four. _Doc."_

She looks at him.

"Doc, do you remember?" He asks cautiously, a hand hovering at her bicep – another coming up to cup the fingers clenched around the signet ring.

"I need to go," Is all she says, not answering him. Eyes going past him, to wherever she needed to be. "Derek, I'm sorry but I need to _go."_

"You know I can't let you do that," He tries to placate her, to reassure her. She's trembling. "Doc, you need to stay here, Liber –"

"Liber won't kill me," She deadpans. Flat. "She can't."

"Ja–" He cuts himself off before he can finish the name. "Doc …"

"I'm sorry, Derek, but I need to go," She gives him a smile; a sad, broken thing.

And before he can react, she winds back her fist – still clenched around her father's ring – and knocks him to the ground.

He blacks out before he hits the floor.

* * *

With his vest on, and his favored gun nestled in his hand, Hotch prepares to break down the door.

(Typically, he leaves the door kicking in to Morgan – but he's not here right now and Hotch has been wanting to wreak some damage on the fuckers who hurt Jane for a long time now.)

"Amina Vite!" Rossi calls loudly, his own gun drawn. "FBI!"

Nothing.

Rossi holds up a hand, gives a countdown.

Hotch winds up and _kicks._

And they have to stop and stare.

"Took you long enough."

* * *

Morgan comes to with a start, Reid probing at his cheekbone as his Baby Girl fluttered nervously beside him.

"Where's Jane?" He asks immediately, wincing as Reid's fingers hit a tender spot. "Watch it, Pretty Boy."

"She's not with you?" Garcia asks, her hands fluttering around his head with restless energy. "Of course she's not with you, you're knocked out on the ground. Who punched you? Was it Liber? Did Liber take Jane? What's – ?"

"Jane hit me," Morgan cut her off. "She said she had to leave – she _decked me._ I taught her too well."

"Did you forget the fact that she broke Rossi's nose the first time she met him?" Reid jokes nervously, but his heart isn't in it.

The rest of his memories rushed back full force, and Morgan pushed himself off the ground, gritting his teeth at the pain of his fresh black eye. "We need to find her –" He winced. "Jane – she remembered."

"What do you mean she _remembered?"_ Reid blinks, startled. "She remembered _what?_"

"I don't know, she wouldn't say," Morgan rubbed his jaw. "But she was really determined to get out of here."

"Uhh, guys?" Garcia stood slowly, approaching Emily's desk – hands out to pick something up.

Jane's badge and gun.

* * *

The apartment is a shabby, filthy thing; it's old and worn and the paint is peeling, and the only person there is Des Liber, standing in the middle of the furnitureless room with a Glock in her hand – aimed straight at Aaron's heart.

Surrounding her, wallpapered across each surface and pinned to every wall was a chronicle of paper. A timeline, meticulously crafted, of LaCreek's murder, then Robert's, and then Mallory's – enough evidence to put Liber away for good, gifted to them with their suspect stood right in the middle.

Rossi didn't like it. It seems to clean, too neat. From Emily's expression, she didn't like it either.

Hotch was as inscrutable as ever.

"Took you long enough," Liber drawled. At her feet, shards of her phone littered the floor – with what Dave could only guess was a sim card already ground to dust beside it. "Thought I'd have to walk myself into custody. That little bitch planned her trap well – I'm not walking away from this clean."

"Desalee Liber, you are under arrest for the murders of Christina LaCreek, Robert Leon, Mallory Sosa, Rhys Olivier, and Daniel Vite," Hotch spoke, stepping forward slowly and keeping his aim level at Liber's chest. "Put the gun down."

"I noticed you didn't mention Kyle," Liber huffed, aim holding steady at Hotch's heart. "Though I suppose it would be arrogant to think you only caught wind of me because of my sloppy shooting. There's a reason I always empty the magazine."

"You always empty your magazine because you have to do it right," Hotch picked at Liber, and she looked irritated at the profiling. "I saw your step-father's records; you shot him, but you didn't do it right the first time – he lived, he got away. So the next time you _had _to do it right. One shot didn't do it – one shot never does it."

"So the question is," Emily picked up from there. "Why did you leave Kyle alive? Why did you only fire one shot?"

"I suppose you're going to tell me," Liber drawls, leveling her aim firmly at Hotch – eyes only for Hotch. "Won't you, Agent Hotchner? You're going to tell me all about how I have a weak spot, or a tell, or a signature, or whatever the hell you want to – and then you're going to talk me down until I give you the gun and you'll ship me off to high security where all the other serial killers and psychopaths go. Is that right?"

"No, Des, that's not quite right," Rossi lowered his aim – noticing out of the corner of his eye that Aaron's held true. "See, because I don't think you're a psychopath. You're a sociopath, Des, and not many people know the difference. Broadly, psychopaths don't follow rules – sociopaths do. So the question I have for you, Des, is what rules are you following?"

"If you're going to make some quip about the law you can save it," Des sniffed, brushing back her neat braids. "I'm already under arrest anyway."

"No, I'm not talking about the law," Dave shook his head, holstering his gun. "I'm talking about this path you've set yourself on. You've helped so many people through your work; it's because of you that Colemyer is the philanthropic empire that it is today – you _help_ people, Des. So why are you killing?"

"They were in my way," Liber shifted her weight. "I couldn't let some other little girl grow up like I did – so I climbed to the top so I can save _everyone."_

"Not everyone," Hotch cut in. "Not Izzy Colemyer, who was only 13 months old when you ordered her death. Not Matt Colemyer, who was three. Not Rebecca, or Tasha, or Kevin, or Ruth, or Charlie –"

_"Enough,"_ She jabbed her glock at him, face twisted. "Enough."

"Those are the names of the children that you killed," Hotch was unrelenting. "Along with Adaline Ryden, who was going to school to be a lawyer, just like you. Casey Ryden, who was constantly switching between wanting to major in biomechanical engineering and theoretical physics – all until he decided to just major in both. Gabriel Ryden, who lived life in the moment and boisterous even when his practice ACTs topped out at 36. And Mari, who you condemned to –"

"I condemned her?" Liber laughed, teeth flashing as she cut him off. _"I_ condemned her? It was her _mother,_ that _useless _woman, who _condemned her._ I just made money off of it. Money I used to _help people."_

"Des, put the gun down," Emily pleaded, placated. "When you started all of this, you didn't want his many people to die. You just wanted to help people, the way that you were never helped. You've done so much good – don't go out like this."

"It's too late," Liber laughed, teeth bared. "It's too late. You're too late. He's going to take the company right out from under us – and He's not going to be as nice as I was about it."

She dropped the gun, and Hotch surged forward to clamp handcuffs onto her willing wrists.

The sound of metal on metal, dragging shut, was not nearly as satisfying as it should've been.

* * *

"Do you have it?"

"What, I don't get a hello?" Andy ducked into the car, watching as his … _something _grinned at him. "C'mon, don't I at least get a kiss?"

"Not until you tell me that you got that blood, Andrew," Amina tried for stern, but fell short when a smile spread across her face at the carefully stored vials he flashed at her. "Oh, you gorgeous man."

"Does that mean I can get out of this stupid getup now?" He tugged at his tie, feeling his dreadlocks settle with familiarity against his neck as his collar loosened. "Why did I have to wear this monkey suit again?"

"You've always looked like – you look like how Daniel did," She forced a smile onto her face, pushing back the sadness in her eyes. "But you should've seen how she talked about that G-Man boss of hers – who, let me tell you, is a hot piece of ass for a white guy. This way, you cover both bases. Her type, but _squared."_

He laughed, but then caught sight of the screen of the laptop propped up awkwardly on her lap.

"They're in your apartment," He leaned over, adjusting the tilt. "So she fell for that last minute trap of yours. Boss Man arrested The Bitch?"

"Nosejob and Sexy helped," She nodded, closing her screen. "So we're blown."

"And Mallory and Rhys are dead," He scrubbed his face. "And so is Rob."

"They were Plan A," She dismissed abrasively, before her expression softened. "Hey, they knew what they were getting into. We made sure they knew the risks – they were prepared."

"No one can be prepared for _this."_ He shook his head, exhaling sharply at the look she shot him. "Okay, _okay._ Plan B: You and Me. We're doing this."

"I've already got identities set up for us," She assured him, passing him a box of creds. "We're going to find the kid, Andy."

"And we're going to be a family again," He smiled, threading his fingers through hers. "You, me, and the kid."

"You, me, and the kid," She repeated, smiling wide as she started the car.

* * *

The rest stop bathroom is filthy, and Jane's been living off the streets too long if it bothers her this much.

No –

Not Jane.

But not Mari, either. Or Ivy. Or Marisole, or Aunt Jane, or Doc, or Janey, or Four, or Hart, or … or Doe

Not anything.

Not anyone.

No One.

She looks in the mirror, at her/not-her face. At her/not-her clothing. At the three scars that ran down her cheek.

They used to be the only she remembered.

But now she can't even tell what she remembers, what she doesn't. And she doesn't want to face it, to deal with it. She _can't._

So now she's running.

_'Don't run away. Run _to.'

Her satchel, that's been glued to her side since the day Vine gave it to her … since _Amina _gave it to her, is useless now. She can't be a doctor now.

Not when her hands won't stop shaking.

She pulls out a scalpel. Just like the one she rammed into Benjamin Cyrus' spine. Just like what _He_ carved into her with.

She can't be a doctor, not anymore.

Before she can even process what she's doing, she's got a hunk of her hair in her hands and –

It falls to the floor.

She breathes out – _she can breathe._

She does it again.

And again.

_And again._

And again and again until all of her hair is shorn and she's got a messy almost-bob like how Elle had, before she broke.

No. Not Elle. Not running away, running _to._

Not short enough.

So she cuts more, pulling out a pair of scissors she used to use to cut clothing or gause – now she's cutting away who she was. And soon she's got almost nothing on the sides and a mess of curls flopping into her eyes on the top and enough nicks on her skin that there's blood on her neck, across the collar of her shirt.

On her scars.

Now she didn't look like anyone she used to be.

But that's not enough, because her clothes are wrong too. So she kicks her satchel under the sink and slinks out into the gift shop to nick some gaudy pastel blue sweatshirt and a pair of pink camo leggings. And even that's not enough, so she throws her boots to the side and grabs a pair of cheap plastic flip flops.

Finally she doesn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

She clasps Dad's ring around her neck. Fingers Uncle Rob's bracelet on her wrist.

Dad was dead. Rob was dead.

_Everyone was dead._

Even Jane Doe and Dr. Hart and Mari Ryden and Ivy were dead. Dead like the hair on the floor.

Dead.

She can hear her phone buzz again, but she doesn't bother to check it. She won't answer it, anyway.

But she does grab her wallet after ditching her IDs – cuts the stash of emergency out of the lining of her satchel, shoves it into her bra.

Leaving the scalpel and the bloody scissors on the sink and the pile of hair and clothes on the ground, she forgoes her bag entirely – and she just walks out the rest stop bathroom, right into the chilly August night air, and goes to solicit a ride from a trucker.

She gets one quickly. She climbs in.

Tries to ignore the rise of chaos in the back of her mind.

The trucker isn't chatty once she slides him a fifty.

Virginia rushes by them.

The temperature drops.

_'Happy Birthday to me,'_ She thinks morbidly, watching as the clock on the dash clicks 12:00. _'Happy Birthday, Dear No One … Happy Birthday to me.'_


	33. 33

_"BREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"_

Gabe choked on his own laughter, shoving it back in his throat before his sister could find him. He sped through the hall, ducking into Casey's room before she could spot him.

"If you bring in your cat fights here, I reserve the right to start reciting the entire periodic table backwards in my best yodel," Casey comments conversationally as he continues to scratch away at his AP Physics. "What did you even _do?"_

"Don't ask, don't tell my dear brother," Gabe stage whispered at him, not bothering to suppress his maniac grin. "I plead the fifth."

"Bree!" Her voice is right outside the door. "So help me – _Bree!"_

With a choked breath, Gabe dives under the bed, cursing his growth spurt when the frame scrapes his back painfully. Bulking up does _not_ help when your sister's on the warpath.

"Case, lovely to see you," She's saying, and Gabe hurries to press a hand over his nose and mouth to muffle his breathing. "Quick question: remember that piece of shit our father contributed to the double helix of? You don't happen to know where he crawled off to, would you?"

"Not my problem," Case dismissed. "Try his room."

"I am not spending a single second breathing in his eau du teenage boy," She deadpanned. "Where is he, Case?"

The doorbell rang.

"Case, c'mon," She repeated.

The doorbell rang again. And again. And again.

"Dad's not home," Case pointed out helpfully. "And I'm doing homework. And you're standing."

The doorbell rang _again._

"Fine," She snapped, turning to leave the room.

Gabe could hear her stomp down the stairs, down towards the foyer. He carefully extricated himself from under the bed, holding in a sneeze from a dust bunny.

_"PSSSst,"_ A hiss came, and Gabe almost jumped out of his skin when he realized it was from the open window. "Quick, before she comes back."

"You rang the doorbell to get Ada away?" He grinned. "Nice one!"

"My pleasure, my young padawan," Ivy grinned right back, jerking her head back to the tree she had scaled to get to the second floor. "Now _c'mon!"_

* * *

"So you're telling me," Strauss dropped her glasses to her desk, forefingers applying pressure to her sinuses. "That fifteen years ago, Des Liber – the prospective CEO of the Colmyer Estate – was _somehow_ – but we don't know exactly how because she won't talk to _anyone_ – involved in the Colemyer Massacre; which we know because she killed a senior lawyer right before the hits to secure her spot in the company before it all went haywire."

Hotch gave one short, sharp nod, and she continued.

"Marisole Ryden – who is also our Dr. Hart – somehow escaped the massacre and fled to Chicago, where she fell in with a tattoo artist named Daniel Vite, whose sister Amina is a hacker," Strauss spoke slowly and deliberately, hand pressed together as if in prayer. "Amina Vite, also known as Vine, survived when Liber shot her brother and someone – who may be an unidentified male that Liber implied was going to take over the company – most likely held Marisole Ryden captive and tortured her extensively."

Hotch nodded again, slower this time.

"Marisole Ryden somehow escaped, lost her memory, and became the Dr. Jane Hart we know – and are _hunting down_ – today," Strauss's voice began to turn hysteric. "The same Dr. Hart who was befriended by Vite. Vite, who used Robert Leon, Mallory Sosa, Rhys Olivier, and an unidentified black man with dreadlocks to _hatch a plot_ that _may or may not_ be linked to the unsub who tortured Marisole – one that required five samples of Jane's blood and the participation of Leon, Sosa, and Olivier in some way."

Hotch decided it was safest to just let the Section Chief run her own course uninterrupted.

"Then when Kyle Olivier-Munson overheard his husband's secret calls, he contacted Liber to accuse her of having an affair with his husband," Strauss stood, too coiled to stay behind her desk any longer. "This was then the reason that Liber spoofed a text, lured Leon to a high end hotel room, decided to kill him, and then proceeded to hunt down the rest of the members of this mysterious plot – killing all of them but Vite and the unidentified partner and injuring Kyle Olivier-Munson."

Hotch was darkly pleased that someone outside of his team was experiencing the same anxiety-ridden migraine that he was.

"And – in the _middle of all of this,"_ Strauss' volume was beginning to climb. "A picture of Liber, a teammate who reminded her of her dead brother, and a ring _stolen_ from a _crime scene_ resulted in Dr. Hart recovering an _unknown amount_ _of her memory_ – swiftly followed by her knocking out Agent Morgan, fleeing the building without her badge or gun, ending up in a rest stop bathroom where she cut off all of her hair and abandoned her things. And now you can't find her."

Hotch sighed, forcing himself to unlock his jaw.

"Is there anything _else?"_ Strauss threw her hands into the air.

Hotch sighed again.

"The working theory is that the reason that Jane fled is because she knew that the unsub who tortured her was still out there, and believes him to be coming after her again."

Strauss just stared at him. Then she walked calmly over to a drawer, pulled it open, removed a half empty bottle of whiskey, and poured them both generous glasses of the stuff.

Hotch didn't have it in him to judge or protest.

* * *

The rig came to a truck stop outside of Henderson. She got off without a word, picking her way through the stop till she stumbled across the cheap gift shop, merchandise proclaiming Kentucky pride on every square inch.

Old jazz music trickled in through the crappy speakers. It reminded her of Rob, of Dad.

Of Rossi.

She pushes forward.

_"– Hart, a missing FBI agent –"_

A TV is on the news, and she surreptitiously slipped on a cap even as she couldn't help but drift closer.

_"Dr. Hart has gone missing following a threat on her life," _The anchor was saying, a picture on the screen next to him – three parallel scars clear as day. _"The clip that is to follow is from a press conference called earlier today, a message to Dr. Hart and anyone who might know her location or have any information about her."_

The image shifts, and then it's Rin.

Rin, on the screen. Standing there as if she hadn't just done what she always promised him she would never do. Run away, not to.

_"Dr. Jane Hart is a doctor first and foremost,"_ And he's wearing the tie that she and Jack got him for father's day. The flag on his lapel an awkward birthday gift from her the first year they were friends. The pocket square that she insulted for being an ugly shade of yellow. _"She is also a very strong woman who has gone through more than anyone can imagine. This message is a plea, for anyone who may know of Dr. Hart's location to come forward, because her family is worried about her. We want to see her home safe, and for her to know that we can protect her – no matter what."_

She swallows roughly, but she can't tear her eyes away.

_"Jane. _Ivy," Hotch continues after clearing his throat – eyes nowhere near his notes and somehow locked right with hers. _"I don't know what happened. I don't know who's after you, who's hurting you, and we won't know unless you tell us. Unless you_ come back._ I know you're terrified, Jane. But we won't give up on you. Don't give up on us."_

And the screen blinks, and he's gone.

"Miss?" A voice comes from beside her, and she just about jumps out of her skin. There's a woman beside her, a trucker by the looks and smell of her. She's got a worn face and worn hands, and the recognition in her eyes is more than just cursory.

Three parallel scars.

"May I help you?" She asks, eyes finding the exits before coming back to the too-thin woman.

The trucker studies her for another moment, eyes never straying from hers.

But then she tears away her gaze, eyes on the TV and where it was now spreading useless gossip about some celebrity.

"I suggest that you remember that fear keeps you moving," Is all the stranger drawls, turning as if to leave. "But that sometimes if you keep moving, you don't give time for the important things to catch up."

And the trucker walks away.

She tugs her cap lower, spying the cameras in the corner, by the door.

And she, a woman with no name who was _certainly_ not who Rin wanted back … well, she slipped out behind a family of three – pretending that she belonged.

Pretending.

Always pretending.

_'Don't run away,'_ Daniel's voice echoes in her ears. _'Run _to.'

Run _to._

To.

* * *

"Black is not a real color."

"Yes it is," Ada rolled her eyes at her sister, carefully wiping a stray droplet of polish off her forefinger. "Don't be a baby."

"Ummm, how does that make me a baby?" Mari pouted, comparing two shades of blue. "I'm not goth – oh no! If _only _I was _mature _enough to wear eyeliner as thick as my pinky and stick bars through my eyebrows! But alas, I am a baby, so I'll have to stick with sparkly eyeshadow and low cut tops."

"Drama queen," Ada rolled her eyes, blowing softly on her nails. "I _meant_ that you've been reading too much of that garbage about how black nailpolish is a sign of a psychopath or something."

"First off: excuse you, how dare you imply that I _read._ And secondly, if I suddenly become a psychopath it won't be because of my _nailpolish,"_ Mari laughed, raising a nailpolish bottle as if she was gripping a knife. "I can kill you dead with glittery blue just as well as with black-as-pitch."

"Your penchant for color will be the death of you," Ada ignored her antics, stretching out – careful to keep her nails off her bedroom's carpet. "One of these days you're going to walk into an interview decked out in your orange eyeshadow and neon hair clips and you're gonna miss out – then you'll be sorry."

"If I end up going out for a job that won't accept ironic Hello Kitty earrings," Mari jabbed a finger at her with faux severity. "Then you can go ahead and just shoot me."

"C'mon, Mar, I'm serious," Ada kicked at her. "You're not a quirky middle schooler anymore. You're fifteen, act like it. What if you want to be a lawyer, like Dad? Or go into the military, like Uncle Rob."

"Ugh, _careers,"_ Mari began to apply her first coat. "You know what? I'll become a stripper. Or a coffee shop seller-person."

"A _barista?"_ Ada provided the word, raising an eyebrow at her. "How about an engineer? Or a journalist? Or a doctor! You'd be good at being a doctor, you're good at science – and you care about people."

"Lies, people suck," Mari dismissed the thought. "And me? A _doctor? Hell_ to the no."

"Then _what?"_

"I dunno …" Her face scrunched up, awkwardly one-handedly closing the bottle of blue. "Maybe …"

"What?"

Damn, Mari looked like Dad when she was all serious. It was like a light switch – Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth – _Arthur!_

"Maybe …" Mari bit her lip. "Don't laugh."

"I won't," Ada promised, already gearing up to do just that.

"I kinda wanted …" Mari shrugged a shoulder, looking embarrassed. "I kinda wanted to … well, you know that news story we saw a couple years ago? About that guy who was killing women for like twenty years?"

"Yeah …" Ada nodded, not seeing where this was going. "What about him? Didn't they catch him?"

"Well, I found out that they needed to call in the FBI to find him," Mari distracted herself with her second coat. "And they found him in a _week _after it took the police years to get _zilch."_

"Didn't you go to some lecture about this?" Ada raised her eyebrows at her, reaching for a top coat. "With Case, that one time?"

Mari nodded, and Ada had to suppress her snort. "Ivy, I hate to break it to you, but you're as much a FBI agent as I'm a WWE champion."

"I said not to make fun of me!" She fumed – and if Ada was going to laugh, it was going to be because of the ridiculously adorable look on her sister's face. "C'mon! It's just a stupid thought. It's just … well, there's this author, David Rossi? He wrote a book or two on how he hunts down serial killers and shooters and kidnappers and rapists … and in his books he talks about how difficult it is, but how _worth it_ it is. I mean, he's nearly _died!_ He's been shot at and nearly got blown up and had threats sent to him and he still … still does it. Because it's _worth it,_ helping people."

"You want to do something worth it? To help people?" Ada smiled fondly at her blushing little sister. "Okay, Wonder Woman. Go ahead. But why don't you do that as a _doctor_ or something, huh? Last I checked, doctors don't nearly _die_ helping people. And personally? I prefer you alive."

"Shame I don't share the same sentiments for you," Mari sat up regally, nose in the air. "If you were to expire, I would have all your nail polish to myself."

"Except the black," Ada pointed out dryly, and Mari snorted out a laugh – dropping the false air.

"Except the black," She echoed, flapping her hands. "The day I wear black nail polish is the day the world crumbles around us."

* * *

"Dad?" Jack asked, looking up from the puzzle that he was working on – a scrunched look on his face that Aaron was … was pretty sure he got from Jane. "Where's Auntie?"

"Jessica's at home with your cousins," He told his son, smiling at him from where he was cobbling some semblance of dinner in the kitchen. "What, am I not good enough for you, buddy?"

"No, I mean _Auntie,"_ Jack shook his head, abandoning his puzzle to clamber onto the breakfast counter. "Auntie _Jane._ I haven't seen her for _ever."_

He winced, putting the spaghetti on to boil as he tried to figure out … figure out what he was going to tell Jack. He didn't want to lie, but the truth – well, the truth was as complicated as it was dark.

"Jack, have you ever seen Jane's scars?" He finally settles on an opener. "The ones on her arms and her shoulders?"

The seven year old nodded hesitantly, clearly unsure where this was going.

"Well, Jane got hurt a long time ago, and she got hurt really bad – and that's why she has those scars," Hotch picked his words carefully. "And it hurt so much that her brain decided to forget a lot of things, to protect her."

"Why would it do that?" Jack was confused, wiggling in his seat and putting most of his weight on the counter. "Would _my_ brain ever do that?"

"No, it's very rare – it's called amnesia," Aaron smiled at his son's earnestness. "And Jane couldn't remember a lot of things, like she didn't remember _her_ dad, or her friends, or what kind of sauce she liked on her spaghetti."

"Red sauce!" Jack provided helpfully. "Red sauce is the best!"

"It sure is, buddy," Aaron smiled at Jack's sweet innocence.

"But why isn't Jane _here?"_ Jack pressed.

"Well, Jane forgot a lot of things, and she had to start over," He continued. "The name her dad gave her wasn't Jane – it was Mari."

"Auntie Mari," Jack puzzled over that for a moment. Trying it out. "Aunt Mari. So do I call her Aunt Mari, now?"

"You'd have to ask her when you see her again, buddy," He held back a sigh, not wanting Jack to think he was frustrated with him. "But the reason that Jane is gone right now is because she remembered who she used to be, and now she's really confused."

"Confused how?" Jack tilted his head, a little puppy.

"Well, imagine you forgot being Jack," Hotch tried to come up with an analogy. "And then you grew up and everyone called you …_ John._ And when you were John, you decided that you _hated _red sauce more than _anything."_

Jack gasped, loudly. _"No."_

_"Yes,"_ Aaron teased, his heart heavy. "Then what if you remembered that you were Jack again, even after being John for so long? You would remember _loving_ red sauce, and _hating _red sauce – how would you _actually _feel?"

Jack gave this serious consideration.

"So Auntie Jane remembers Aunt _Mari,"_ He parsed out carefully. "And she doesn't know if she likes red sauce or not. Right?"

"Yes, that's right," He nodded, proud of his son – and his own analogy.

"But why can't she just eat some spaghetti?" Jack wondered. "Then she would know, right?"

From the mouth of babes.

"Well, Auntie Jane is really scared, buddy," Hotch choked the words out. "She wants to eat the spaghetti, but doesn't know if she _wants _to like the red sauce. She's scared."

"Adults get scared?" Jack asked, bewildered.

"All the time, buddy," He laughed, feeling his throat thicken. "All the time."

* * *

Reid and Emily sat in silence, the bullpen quiet as the night came to a close.

It'd been a month, and as much as the team wished they could devote every waking moment into searching for Jane … she was too good. She knew them, and more than that she knew how to disappear. Mari had escaped authorities and killers alike … she wasn't going to be found unless she wanted to.

She didn't want to.

So they had to move forward.

And to accept that with two of their own gone … they had to allow others in.

"Seaver's a good agent," Emily finally says, not looking at him. "She's going to learn a lot with us."

"If Jane was here, she'd be mothering her – even if Seaver wouldn't realize it for a couple weeks, at least," Reid sighs. Scrubs at his face. "Emily, what are we going to do? Liber won't talk – to _anyone, _not even her lawyer – and Vine's still in the wind. She and her partner are gone, and we still don't know what they needed that blood for."

"There's nothing we _can _do," Emily said after a moment. "It's like Gideon, Reid. She needs … we have to respect her choices."

"Like Gideon," Reid nodded, before straightening up in his chair suddenly. _"Gideon!"_

"What?" She's confused, forcing herself up after Reid as he barrells his way into Rossi's office. "Reid, what about Gideon?"

Rossi looks startled at their entrance, dropping his pen.

"Rossi, you said when we were first looking into the Colemyer Massacre that you only consulted on it briefly, before it was taken off your hands," Reid rocketed, hands gesticulating everywhere. "What did you mean by that?"

"The BAU was only brought officially on after a lot of fighting with bureaucracy – jurisdiction," Rossi answered slowly, eyes flitting between them. "Colemyer was a big deal, even then. By the time we were invited in, another case had come up – a dormant case I'd worked on before becoming active again. I was passed over on the Colemyer case."

"Who took over?" Reid pressed, eyes shining. "After you were reassigned, who worked on the case?"

"It was taken out of our hands soon after, the BAU had barely worked it before a task force was put together instead – we didn't have the reputation we have today," Rossi answered. "But before that –"

He cut himself off, eyes wide.

"It was Gideon," Reid smiled in triumph. "Gideon was the agent assigned to the Colemyer Legacy case."

"Do you think Gideon _knew?"_ Emily asked, incredulous. "Knew about Jane being Mari?"

"It was Gideon," Reid laughed, posture lightening. "Of course he did. And you know what? I bet he knows where she's hiding, too."


	34. 34

"Uncle _Rooooooooooob –!"_

He groaned, burying his face into his hands as he heard his niece and nephew banging around his house, Gabe no doubt going to raid his fridge while Mari was … well, you could never quite predict, with Mari.

"If you kids eat me out of house and home, you'll have nowhere to hide when your mother visits," He hollered down the stairs, abandoning his ship-in-a-bottle with a huff.

"If we eat you out of house and home, you'll just move in with us!" Gabe called back, voice muffled by whatever carbohydrate he shoved into his gaping maw.

"And _then _you'll kick Mom out the door every time she stops by to flirt with Dad," Mari tacked on as the sound of her clomping up the stairs grew louder. "Actually: good idea, Gabe – keep chewing!"

Rob rolled his eyes so hard his head hurt, twisting in his chair to face his door as a giggle sounded behind him.

"Hey, little Ivy," He glanced at her head and shoulders poking just in the frame, the widest grin splayed across her face. "I see the registered joy-ologist is back."

"Never," She beamed at him. "I am the visage of misery, the epitome of angst."

"The pain in my ass?"

She just giggled again, entering fully to lean on his – aching! – shoulders and look down at his work.

"Bottle O'Ship," She quipped. "Nice. Far better than pretending to enjoy Her Majesty's company."

"Hey, just because you don't get along doesn't mean you shouldn't try to. She is your mother." He scolded her, pinching her cheek when she just rolled her eyes. "Don't give me that."

"Give you what?" She pulled at his ear. "A hard time? Nah, sorry, prepaid service."

"I did not pay for that," Rob denied flatly, ducking out from under her sharp elbows. "C'mon, kid. Your brother really _will_ eat everything in my fridge, and if that happens I'll have to eat at your house – and you bet I'll drag you and Bigfoot over to suffer family dinner with me."

Mari squaked in protest, hurtling down the stairs to keep the bottomless pit from eating the last of the casserole.

* * *

The door's bell sounded as the first patron in three hours stepped in.

"I'll be right with you!" She called, holding back a sigh as she dropped the clipboard she was using for inventory.

Not bothering to paste on a customer service face, she weaved her way through dilapidated shelves and wobbly piles of wedding magazines to the front, flipping an uneven chunk of hair out of her eyes.

"Welcome to Janice's," She heads to the till, not bothering to greet the man properly. She glances out the window to which pump he was parked at. "Paying for gas?"

"$34.68 on two," He answered, and she froze. "And I think I'll have a cup of coffee as well, _Elle."_

Her hand flew to the cheap name tag clipped to the front of her flannel, and she slowly turned to face him. Swallowed roughly.

"You grew a beard," Was all she could say.

"You found your name," Jason Gideon replied with an arched eyebrow, pulling out a stool. "I thought I told you to call when that happened."

* * *

"What was she like?"

Emily looks up at her quiet question.

"What was who like?"

"Dr. Hart," Ashley blushed down to the roots of her blonde hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've asked – it's just …"

"It's just that whenever we're not on a case, we're focused on her," Emily finished for her, a self deprecating smile on her face. "I know that now's a strange time for you to become part of this team – I hope that you haven't been ... "

"Uncomfortable?" She offered, a bit shyly. "It's fine, I haven't been. But everyone's heard of Dr. Hart; usually in the context of cursing Agent Hotchner – _Hotch_ – for finding her first. I just … wanted to know what made you all love her so much."

It sounded silly now that she'd said it out loud.

"Because she was kind."

Seaver nearly jumped out of her skin at Rossi's voice coming from right behind her, and had to place a hand over her heart to slow its frantic beating.

"Because she was kind," Rossi repeated, pulling up a chair. "Jane went through so much, more than we can ever realize, and still at the end of the day – through the sarcasm and solitude – she was kind."

"... Do you miss her?" She asked carefully, studying her mentors. "I mean, that's a stupid question, of course you do, but …"

"But what do we miss about her?" Emily supplied, seemingly the one who was going to finish all the sentences around here. "I miss her mother henning. It was subtle – takes a bit to realize what she's doing – but she has this way of taking every aspect of your health in and just … dealing with it."

"That's an understatement," Reid laughed, again startling Ashley. "Man, you should've seen it, Seaver. If you've not gotten enough calcium, and she's noticed it? She'd spike your coffee with milk and feed you calcium chews that tasted like chocolate or caramel."

"Or if you don't sleep," Rossi offered, also appearing as the crowd gathered. "She'd stick a hot cup of tea in your hand and start Reid on some topic that she found interesting but she knew was too technical for the rest of us. We'd drift off out of self preservation."

They all laughed as Reid pouted, and Morgan and Garcia drifted over at the sound.

"I miss how she used to poke fun at us," Morgan caught wind of the conversation. "No egos were safe in her presence. She thought you were full of shit? You were in for dig after dig after dig – not even Hotch was safe."

_"Especially_ Hotch wasn't safe," Garcia snorted – and at some point they'd become a circle, with Seaver in the middle, talking about the good times and a friend they missed. It felt … welcoming, heartening. Warm. "And man, when they got into it? _Yeesh."_

"They fought?" Seaver asked incredulously, bewildered by the thought of _anyone_ willingly going toe to toe with _Agent Aaron Hotchner._

"Fought implies a level of dislike or disrespect that neither of them had for each other," Reid disagreed in that academic way of his. "More like –"

"More like the two of them danced around each other like two turtle-doves," Rossi drawled, and that image was even_ more_ foregin. "Except the if turtle doves were incredibly over protective lions who were bad at talking about their feelings."

"They were …" Seaver couldn't even say the words. "I thought – the fraternization rules –"

Everyone immediately made _'well…'_ grimaces with identical head tilts.

"It wasn't official, as far as we knew," Emily explained, trying to put it into words and obviously struggling. "And the fraternizing rules are a little vague, because of Jane's unique position …"

"What I miss about Jane was how she'd patch us up," Morgan spoke a little-too loudly – Seaver frowned at the seemingly random shift. "Man, I miss not having to fill out a bunch of forms to get back in the field."

"I miss playing chess with her," Reid sighed, looking off towards her empty office morosely. "She wasn't as good as _Gideon_ …"

"I miss her smile."

Seaver froze, the sound of Agent Hotchner's voice smacking her in the face.

She turned in her chair as subtly as she could, seeing what – or rather who – had no doubt prompted Morgan's shift in focus. Agent Hotchner was standing there, in his suit, studying the cover of the file in his hands.

"I miss how she would smile at you when you were being an insufferable menace, or when you were doing something she found hilarious, or when she was picturing how much she wanted to jam a pen in your eye," Hotch's lips twitched slightly … and Ashley could see it, how Dr. Hart and Hotch might dance around each other like courting lions. "And I miss how I couldn't tell the difference until I'd known her for years, and then once I figured it out I couldn't miss it."

Then Hotch cleared his throat, and his serious was back – and they all pretended they hadn't been looking at him with the kind of look you give puppies or people in love.

"Round table room in ten," He told them, pushing all of his emotions back down. "We have a case."

And he walked away.

They all scattered, and Ashley felt that something … _someone _… was missing.

She hoped Dr. Hart came back soon.

* * *

She gave Gideon his coffee, and started to wipe down the counter.

Janice's was a gas-station-slash-general-store-slash-bar, and she – Elle, she was _Elle_ now – had been working there since she arrived in Lowell. Nobody questions anybody out here, that's why she chose Vermont.

"You cut your hair," Jay broke the silence.

"I was fed up washing it," She replied, resisting the urge to run her fingers over the messy ends.

Too soon the bar was clean, and her rag was not, and Jason still had two thirds of his coffee left.

"You never called," He spoke again. "Didn't reach out."

"Hard to do when you don't leave a forwarding address," She shot back. "And you stopped using your old number years ago."

"I would've for you," He told her calmly. "I always would, for you. I wish you had called, had told me."

"Yeah, well, you know now," She snapped. "So you can leave at any time."

"I may know, but you never told me," He shook his head slowly, fingers half-curled around his mug. "And we both know that there's no way I'm leaving until you say the name yourself."

She huffed, tossing the rag aside and giving him her back, heading back to finish inventory.

* * *

"Case, I swear to everything that is even remotely holy that if you do not move your skinny ass I will melt your precious thousand-piece Enterprise model, so help me –"

Gideon quirked an eyebrow at the snippet of conversation that carried to him across the lecture hall. With a scan of the room, he located the source coming from a young girl with a messy pile of curly hair shoving playfully at a skinny young man next to her – from the looks of it her older brother – in the third row. The brother looked on indulgently as she dropped into the seat and practically vibrated with excitement.

She was young; at the oldest fifteen, probably closer to thirteen or fourteen. It was possible that the brother was a student at U of M, but she almost certainly wasn't. All the same, it was endearing to see someone so enthusiastic about a lecture of _any_ kind, more so that it was one of his.

And in a brief moment they lock eyes, he and the girl.

And she _beams_ at him with boundless enthusiasm, and when he returns the expression at a fraction of the percentage, her grin only grows.

* * *

He was still here.

She honestly couldn't muster up the energy to be surprised.

With a sigh, she just topped off his coffee, pushing his money away with a snort when he tried to pay – like hell he was going to pay.

She buisies herself wiping down some glasses. Gideon sips slowly at his drink.

Cars pass by the highway.

It starts to rain.

She tops his coffee.

It stops raining.

Dusk begins to set.

She tops his coffee again.

Eventually she's just standing there behind the counter, back to polishing the already clean glasses as one of her oldest friends … friends alive … just watches her.

And eventually her hands still.

"Your scars," He breaks the silence. "How did you get them?"

"The Boston Reaper decided that it was a shame my 'pretty face' was unmarred," She answers, eyes on the wood pattern of the bartop.

"That's not what I meant," Gideon rebukes softly. "And you know it."

Her chest began to tighten. She coughed, drying to get air down her throat.

"More coffee?" She asked.

"The name on your tag," He ignores her question, her evasion. "Elle. Why did you choose it?"

"It's a pretty name," She answered vaguely, bracing her hands against the low counter.

"I don't think that's it," He disagreed, and his fingers tighten around his mug. "I think you chose it because you couldn't think of any names but the names of your family."

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, incessantly.

Deafeningly.

"And the names of the family that you lost or left behind hurt too much," He tried to make eye contact with her. "All that was left was the family that left you, that you let go."

"My family's dead," She gritted her jaw, eyes on the too-loud clock. The chain around her neck burned. "They're _dead,_ Jay."

"Not all of them," Gideon shook his head. "Not all of them."

* * *

Case found Agent Gideon's lecture to be … well, to be _interesting._ Disturbing, definitely. Also sickening, disheartening, and upsetting – but at the end he could surely say it was _interesting._

Ivy, it seemed, was not nearly so cynical.

"Case, this is like reading Agent Rossi's book, but in _person,"_ She enthused breathlessly when the Q&A session came to a close. "And it's _amazing._ He's _amazing._ Omigosh, do you think it would be weird to ask for an autograph? Is that creepy? That's creepy, I won't do that. But he and Agent Rossi _founded_ the BAU. They _pioneered_ behavioral analysis! Case, they _invented science."_

"Yes, he's amazing," He bristles at the slight on Tesla's honor. "But he did not _invent_ science. He innovated the field of behavioral science, Mari. He didn't invent the field of science itself."

"Says you," She huffed with a dramatic flair, standing as the mass of people had nearly completely filed out. "Who knows? Maybe he's the Embodiment of Science given form, sent down from On High to stop us wretched mortals from killing each other in new and disturbing ways."

"If he's the Embodiment of Science," Case played along with a roll of his eyes. "Then what would Agent Rossi be?"

"The Embodiment of –" She threw her hands out, twirling to face him. But whatever she was going to say was cut off as she tripped on a plastic water bottle someone had left in the auditorium – she stumbled, tumbling down the stairs and crying out as she caught herself on the railing – inches from slamming her face into the ground.

"Mari!" He cursed, pushing past the stragglers. "Shit, Mari, are you okay?"

"Clear the way," A deep voice ordered, the remaining people dispersing like oil from soap – Case would've thanked whoever it was if he wasn't busy pulling the colorful scarf from Mari's neck and pressing it on the cut slicing deeply through Mari's palm.

"What got you, the railing?" He glanced at a jagged edge glistening with blood. "That's _dangerous _– what if that'd been your _eye?"_

"I'm fine, Case, just clumsy," His sister tried to assure him, as if her eyes weren't full of tears she was desperately trying not to shed. She cleared her throat, forcing her voice not to shake. "I'm fine. It's just my hand. I'll need stitches, though."

"Let me see," The man stepped forward, crouching in front of Mari.

_Agent Gideon_ crouched in front of Mari.

Case would bet money that the squeak that Mari let out had less to do with the pain in her hand than the fact that one of her recent infatuations was carefully peeling back her scarf to check how deep the cut was.

"Are you medically trained?" Casey pushed through, his older brother instincts surging up full force.

"No, I am not," Agent Gideon ignored the blood on his fingers as he probed gently at the meat of her thumb. "But I have first aid that comes with years of experience. I'll be able to see if it's bad enough for a doctor."

Mari winced sharply, suddenly, and nearly jerked her hand out of the agent's grip. Casey stepped forward, squatting down next to Gideon and grabbing her free hand from where it was flapping at chest level, steadying her with support.

"All good?" Gideon asked gently. At her nod, he smiled to put her at ease. "What's your name?"

"Mari," She answered, regulating her breathing as the man maintained pressure on her palm. "Mari Ryden."

"Well then, Mari," Gideon smiled at her, gesturing for her to sit down more steadily. "How did you like my lecture?"

"It was _amazing!"_ She gushed, hand mostly forgotten, and Casey shared an amused glance with Gideon over her complete 180. "I read Agent Rossi's book and – and, and you've done so much work for … for _so _many people! Thank you!"

"You're very welcome," Gideon smiled at her. "Though I will say, I am no Embodiment of Science, as flattering as it would be."

Casey cackled as Mari blushed profusely, dropping her hand as she tugged free to pull nervously at her ear. "Oh, you, uhh … you heard that."

"Indeed I did, I feel flattered to have received such high praise," The agent chuckled, peeling back the blood coated fabric of her scarf gently. "But I'm curious. What would Dave be, if I was the Embodiment of Science?"

"It's silly," She shook her head, lips pressed tight together as he wrapped and neatly tied a handkerchief from his pocket around her hand.

"Silly's not a bad thing."

"He …" She blushed again. "Well, it could've been … kinda like a cheesy sci-fi fantasy plot. 'The Embodiment of Science and the Embodiment of Justice: working together to teach the police how to use science and justice combined to help people.' It was just silly."

"Sounds like the good basis to a book," Gideon continued to smile at her, and Casey had to give him credit for rolling with Mari's oddities. "How old are you, Mari?"

"I'm thirteen," She answered, eyeing him for the signs that most adults gave overly precocious kids like her. "Casey's an incoming freshman, next year. I dragged him here after a tour."

"Well, thirteen is a prime age to be sneaking into lecture halls, even if you end up a little bloody afterwards." Agent Gideon laughed goodnaturedly before turning to him. "Do you two have means to get to the hospital, to stitch her up?"

Casey grimaced, thinking about the bus they took from Detroit. He couldn't take her home that way, not with her hand all bust up – and he didn't know his way around Ann Arbor well enough to get her to the nearest hospital. God, he wished that Ada didn't have the car today …

"Tell you what," Gideon sent him a knowing look. "I'll lend you a phone so you can call whoever you need to; then, if you want, I'll drive you two to the hospital before we send you home. How does that sound?"

With Mari glowing with excitement the way she was, Casey honestly had no say in the matter.

* * *

"Where have you been sleeping?"

She pauses, fingers stilling as she looks up from where she was counting the cash in the register.

"There's a cot in the back," She reluctantly answers. "Does its job."

She goes to continue totalling, but realizes she's lost count. She sighs and starts again.

"You're not going to ask?"

She lost count again.

"Should I?" She sighs, starting over.

"Only you can answer that," He smiles his same familiar, knowing smile at her. "The question becomes whether or not you want to know."

"I don't," She instantly says, even though they both know it's a lie.

"I'll tell you anyway," He toyed with his empty mug. "But I think you should be the one to ask."

She gave up on the till. Looked him in the eyes for the first time since he walked in.

They were the same eyes, the same eyes.

"When did you know?" She asked quietly. "When did you figure it out?"

"There were a couple things … things that reminded me of that little girl in Michigan," He spoke slowly, reaching over to her slowly. "But what really proved me right …"

He took her left hand, in his own – his larger, warmer hand engulfed hers, like the ghost of a memory given heat and form.

And gently, he turned if over and opened her fingers – traced a forefinger gently over the deep scar running right across her palm.

* * *

Mari was pretty sure she was going to pass out, and it had nothing to do with the amount of blood her palm was leaking. Or the stitches she was going to need.

She was _pretty _sure it had more to do with the fact that after Casey had to leave to sign a bunch of forms and call Dad for legal mumbo jumbo, _Agent Jason Gideon_ stayed with her. He was just _sitting _there, holding her hand.

_AH!_

On the bus ride over, all she could think about was how _surreal_ it was going to be to _see_ someone that she had read about and _idolized_ in Agent Rossi's book. Like, when she had first picked it up at the library she thought it was _fiction_ it was so … so …

And now _Jason Gideon_ was sitting with her in a hospital waiting room after giving an _amazing_ lecture on profiling – and telling her about the time that _David Rossi_ nearly crashed into a tree when sledding on a case. Because of a _dare._

If she died right there and then, she was pretty sure Dad and Rob and everyone would be _pissed _– but she could die happy. So very happy.

"I have a question," She finally plucked up the courage, after his story had ended and she had relaxed back into the stiff chair. "You don't have to answer it, though."

"Doesn't hurt to ask," He smiled down at her – so tall! "What do you want to know?"

"How do you …" She chewed her lip. "How do you _not _profile someone?"

He blinked at her, and she cursed herself. She slipped up again, she _knew_ that she had gotten too comfortable. Agent Gideon wasn't like Case or Bree – she needed to use her words, make herself clear, like Dad told her to. And she had been doing kinda well not sounding (too) crazy, too.

"How do you make yourself not profile someone, even when you keep _seeing_ things?" She asks again, and based off his head tilt he got it this time. "I mean, there's this … well, after I read Agent Rossi's book I keep _seeing_ things. In my own life, with … with my mom. And I don't know if it's, I dunno – Hypochondria: Profiling Edition."

"What kind of things are you seeing?" Agent Gideon asked her slowly, eyes studying her – _profiling her,_ she realised with a rush.

"Well, my mom keeps –"

"Ivy!" Her dad's voice cuts in suddenly, and Mari abandons all previous trains of thought to whip around and face him. "Oh, thank god. When Casey called and said you had to be taken to the hospital –"

"I'm fine, Dad, I promise," She assured him, throwing her arms around his neck. "Agent Gideon says it's not that bad, and he's a FBI agent so he knows things."

With her still hanging off of his arm like a limpet, her dad turned to face Agent Gideon, who had stood to greet him. They shook hands.

"Arthur Ryden," Dad smiled his I-actually-like-you smile. Wow, he really _was _grateful._ "You're_ Jason Gideon?"

"I am," Agent Gideon nodded, glancing between Dad and her. "You've heard of me, I assume."

"Well, other than the fact that Mari here won't shut up about your fellow agent's book …" Dad ribbed her goodnaturedly before turning back to face Gideon fully. "I'm a criminal prosecutor. Your development of behavioral science has come up more than once at work."

"Well, I'm glad that you're here," Gideon gestures at where Casey was hanging back a bit. "I was sure that your son would've had it well in hand, but I just wanted to be sure."

"Thank you," Dad thanked him again. "I really do appreciate it. Can I pay for your gas, or –?"

"No, no nothing like that," Gideon shot her once last smile, before scooping up his jacket. "Though if in a couple years you want to send her our way, we could always use a mind like hers."

Mari felt a blush creeping up her neck, and she ducked her head – leaning back against her dad. Casey barked out a laugh at her embarrassment, and she felt her dad's chuckle rumble through his ribs.

"I may not have a say in it," Dad called after Gideon with an audible smile in his voice. "But give it a few years. We'll see."

Mari looked up at him hopefully, and he just smiled his _real_ smile at her before ushering them over to the nurse's station.

* * *

"Do you think it's a coincidence that you started working at the BAU?"

"You're back," She didn't answer him, turning from where she was setting up the 'Open: We Have Gas & Booze' sandwich board. "Staying for the birdwatching?"

"I don't think it is," Jason continues as if she hadn't spoken. "I think that when you chose to be a medical examiner, to pursue criminal and forensic science … you did because a part of you that you didn't remember was still that little girl who just wanted to help people."

"Maybe," She frowned. "Or maybe part of me knew that I could never be a doctor, not really. That even if They were gonna push me, I could never really take care of someone else. Just patch them up and send them on their way."

"You took care of me, of the team," He tried to counter.

She just shook her head at him, turning to head back inside. "And look where I ended up."

"Yes, look where you've ended up," He repeated back to her, and she paused with her hand on the door. "Look at all the lives you've saved, all the people you've treated. The criminals you've caught and the children you've comforted."

She bowed her head.

"You may not be that starry-eyed little girl, anymore, but you remember being her now," He continued, and he could hear the knowing smile in his voice. "Think. If that girl met you now, would she care about the scars on your skin or the mistakes you've made? Or would she gush over how proud she was of how many people you saved, how hard you fought?"

She gritted her jaw, firmed her resolve.

"That little girl is _dead,_ Jason," She spat, shoving open the door. "Just let her lie. Don't bring up ghosts, it does no good."

"Are you telling me that?" He called after her. "Or are you telling yourself?"

The cheerful bell that sounded as the door slammed shut behind her made her furious and confused and –

She missed …

She missed everyone.

She missed how easy everything used to be.

And she missed when she couldn't remember, and didn't want to.

She missed being happy.

She missed being that starry-eyed little girl.


	35. 35

"You know, after I realized who you were, I realized why you were having so much trouble warming up to Hotch," Jason told her, pushing her a grilled cheese across the counter.

She poured him some coffee.

"When I first met your father, I was jarred by how much he reminded me of Aaron," Jason sipped at the cheap brew. "I talked to Arthur for less than ten minutes, and I saw who Hotch would be in ten, fifteen years. A stern, serious man of justice who reserved all of the love he had for his kids."

She reluctantly dug into the proffered food.

"You spent all those years after his death surrounded by criminals and vagabonds, unsubs and manipulative bastards," Gideon continued, and she forced down her flinch. "And then you met me again, met Dave. Started working your childhood dream beside a man who was so much like your father – but he didn't act like your father, not to you."

She chewed slowly.

"It must've been confusing."

"I kept …" She hid behind her bangs. "I kept expecting him to challenge me to a checkers tournament, or to throw me a dig, or to scold me for not trying to communicate right … and I didn't even _realize _that's what I expected from him, and it just felt …"

"Wrong?" He offered wryly. "But Hotch wasn't Arthur, and you grew to realize that. Just like how Reid wasn't Casey."

"You noticed those similarities too, huh?" She tried for a smile. "I … looking back I realize I had wondered why Spinner wasn't more … protective of me, of the rest of us."

"Because Spencer isn't Casey," Gideon affirmed. "You re-taught yourself how to see people around you. We all automatically make connections, compare people we meet to people we know. However, even though your subconscious was making these comparisons, your conscious thoughts weren't on the same page. You had to readjust your expectations."

"So?"

_"So_ you overcame everything you went through. You started over." He unwrapped his own ruben. "You took the pieces of yourself that you had and made yourself whole again."

She snorted, dark humor surfacing.

"Well, not anymore," She abandoned her sandwich. "It's all muddled now. I don't know who I am."

"I don't agree," Gideon shook his head. "I don't think you're as _muddled_ as you think you are."

"And why not?" She challenged.

"Because you came here, to Vermont," He kept his voice even, looking around the shop. "Your father's family rented a cabin when he was growing up, less than twenty minutes from here. This is where your dad used to pick up fly fishing lures and cans of condensed milk. _This _is where you would spend your summers, whenever he could get time off."

"So?" She cleared her throat, fiddling with her bracelet.

"So this is familiar territory," Jason reached over to still her hands. "You didn't run away, you ran_ to."_

"Not at first," She confessed quietly.

"But you're here now," He gave her wrist a last squeeze, retracting his hand. "You came here, because I'll bet that this is one of your first memories. Earliest memories."

She nodded.

"My dad …" She breathed in deeply, brow creasing. "There's a shelf in the back, where there's marmalade now, used to have the fixings for s'mores. I remember coming in with my dad and always rushing right for it, seeing if they had the colorful marshmallows. They never did, but I always thought – maybe this time. Maybe_ this time."_

"And there you have it," Jason chuckled. "You remembered something, and you're doing just fine. Smiling, even."

"But …" Her lips went slack. "But that wasn't … wasn't _important."_

"Wasn't important?" He echoed, waving his hand as if to dismiss the thought. "What do you mean, it wasn't important? It's a childhood memory, it shaped who you are."

"It … it wasn't _hard,"_ She tried again.

"You had to steady yourself," He pointed out. "Had to think back, _make_ yourself remember."

"You know what I mean!" She snapped, irritated. "It wasn't like – like I was remembering –"

"Remembering how you got those scars?" Jason guessed.

She looked away.

"You are going to remember," He told her, as if to break it to her gently – as if she didn't already know. "You're going to remember, and it's going to hurt sometimes. But not all of it. Not all of it."

"But I don't _want_ to," Tears sprang to her eyes. "Jay, I don't _want_ to."

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to," He soothed her. "Not all at once, not all at the same time, but you're going to have to. And it's not going to be easy – but it's going to be a lot harder without someone to help you along."

She snorted, swiping at her eyes. "What, you telling me I should go back, old man?"

"Well that would just be hypocritical," He smiled at her sardonically.

"So, what?" She felt like a stuck record. "What's your _point?"_

"My point is that I refuse to leave you alone, not again," He leaned onto the counter, returning to his breakfast. "So I'm going to stay, and I'm going to help. And once it doesn't hurt so much, once you let yourself _mourn _– I'm going to ask you again. And you're going to choose a name, and _that's _going to be the only name that matters."

"If only it was that easy," She dug her fingernails into her palm – into her scar. "If I go back … everyone is going to ask me to choose _who I am._ But I'm not – I _can't._ Because I'm not any of them."

"You're not any _one_ of them," He corrects. "You were Marisole Ryden when you were a little girl, living in a big house full of siblings who annoyed you and a dad who loved you and a grumpy uncle down the street. Then you got older, and you were Mari – you made friends and dated and got into stupid arguments with your siblings over stupid things that siblings fight over. When you were running, you were Ivy, because your family was dead and someone was after you and you had to leave the little girl behind. After you lost your memory you were Jane Doe, because the past was a shadow and you had to start fresh. After, you became Dr. Jane Hart, when you tried to break free – to take control. Then just Jane, when you become who you always wanted to."

Her face was wet. Salt graced her lips.

"You are not any one person," He flashed a tight smile at her. "You're all these people. You're even Elle, the bartender and shopkeeper and drifter who sells gas in the middle of Vermont. They're all you. And just because they have different names doesn't make them different people."

"But who am I supposed to be _now?"_ She can't stop herself from asking. "Who am I supposed to be when this is all over?"

"Be the little girl who cut her hand from excitement at a lecture on profiling," He advised. "Be the teenager who wore big earrings and bright colors. The young woman who breezed through medical school in 20 months because she was so, so very smart. The doctor who sassed police officers in the middle of Boston, who punched an FBI agent because he disrespected her. Be _you._ The name will come later."

"You make it sound so easy," She laughed, wiping her face.

"Maybe it is," He mused knowingly. "That's the thing, isn't it. When we're young, everything is so straightforward. It's getting older and living more that complicates things."

"I think you and I have lived enough for fifty," Jane sighed, grabbing herself a lemonade from the fridge. "But somehow we just keep going."

"That we do," He laughed, full and loud and tinged with sadness. "That we do."

She rolled the can between her palms, felt the cold seep through her fingers.

"Thank you," She looks at him, and their eyes meet. "Thank you for finding me."

"I'll always find you," He told her gently. "You know, I knew the moment that I locked eyes on you in that lecture hall that you would grow up to be a fascinating young woman."

"You did?" She smiled, feeling a long absent blush creep up her neck. "Well, I knew the moment we locked eyes that I was going to end up just like you one day."

"A shame," His smile turned self-deprecating. "No one should end up like me. Like us."

"Too late now," She cracked the can open, taking a sip. "Stuck like this."

"Indeed," He raised his cup in a silent toast.

And she raised her drink, tapping it against his.

And something uncurled in her chest.

* * *

When Garcia finally hunted him down, he knew that he wasn't getting out of this conversation.

Because he knew, after all these years of their knowing each other, that when _Penelope Garcia_ got that look on her face – you shut up and do what she says. Lest you wanted photoshopped pictures of you ending up in your ex and boss' inboxes.

Morgan wasn't entirely sure if his Baby Girl would go that far with him … but honestly, better safe than sorry.

"Okay, spill," She sat down, pressing a colorful cup full of steaming tea into his hands before taking a sip of her own. "Out with it."

"Baby Girl –" He tried – futilely – to deter her.

"Ah ah ah!" She cut him off, glaring. "No. You are guilty. Talk."

"Baby Girl, there's nothing to talk about," Morgan shook his head, setting aside his untouched tea and trying to return to his files. "I'm not guilty."

"See, I know you're guilty – because that was the most pathetic attempt to lie and deflect I have _ever _seen out of you," She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. "Now _spill._ This is about Jane. This is about Jane _remembering._ You think it's your fault."

"It _is _my fault," He growled, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "Penelope, it was my fault. It _is_ my fault."

"Reid and Rossi said that it probably wasn't just the ring," She frowned at him, but he just shook his head.

"Yeah, but the other factors? They're my fault too," He ground his jaw, like the dam walling up his guilt cracking open. "I should've never picked up that ring – that was my fault. Her seeing those photos? I should've watched her better. Hell, even her thinking of me like I was Gabriel? That was my fault, because it was _my_ idea for Rossi and I to emulate Bree and Rob. It _was _my fault. Because I perfectly set up the scenario for her to have all of those horribly traumatic memories _rushing back in_ and then _I_ was the one who let her go."

Penelope was quiet. He scrubbed at his face.

"Derek, nobody is blaming you but yourself," She set her tea down. "Everyone is too busy blaming themselves."

"But it's –"

"Not our fault?" She finished for him, smiling ironically. "I should've come forward about my suspicions about Vine, I should've watched out for Jane more when she was in Montana, I should've seen that the weather delay was a hack."

"Baby Girl …"

"Reid should've realized that Jane was a target earlier, Reid should've figured out what the blood is for by now, Reid should've stayed with Jane," She pushed forward, slowly shaking her head. "Emily should've stayed behind, Rossi should've known something was wrong with Leon –"

"But it's not –"

"Hotch shouldn't have left those files out."

He fell silent.

"We're all blaming ourselves, but not each other, Derek," She smiled sadly at him. "But what we all need to do is take the blame as a whole. We messed up, and now she's gone."

"Why didn't she stay?" He finally outburst, feeling _furious._ Feeling the anger that he'd been pushing back for _months _come back full force – because they were a _team._ A _family._ They _protected_ each other and Jane just – Jane just left.

"We could've protected her," He chokes out as his anger fizzles, sadness taking its place. "We could've protected her, but she _ran._ Why did she run?"

"Because that's all she knew how to do," Garcia pulled him into a hug, enveloping him with her warmth. "Because when the Colemyer's died, she ran. And when Daniel Vite died, she tried to run – but they caught her. Then when They had her, she ran again. And each time – if she made it out, it was okay."

"But she was running from – from unsubs and murderers and abusers," Morgan cradled his head in the curve of her neck. "Not from her _family."_

"Which is why she'll come back," She insisted firmly, hug almost too tight. "When she sorts through her head and remembers how much she loves us and we love her, she'll come back."

"And what if she can't?" Derek pulled away, not feeling much better. "What if the unsub get's her first?"

Garcia didn't have an answer for him.

* * *

She wrapped her jacket around her more firmly, feeling autumn's bite at the nape of her neck and along her collar. She silently thanked past-her for deciding to go with the thick pants, the thick socks. It was cold, fall in Vermont.

"This is a bit more of a hike than you'd promised," Jay panted behind her, taking another stop on the slope. Between his poofy old jacket, his full beard, and his red nose he looked a bit like a grumpy santa. "You said it was short."

"This is the shortest hike that's worth the view," She shot back to him, her snort just barely crystalizing in the air in front of her. "Brousseau is worth the view, I promise you that. We've another fifteen minutes, tops."

"An hour long hike, and you expect me to just gallop up like a giselle?" He groaned, breathing getting heavier. "I'm not exactly a spring chick, young lady."

"Don't you 'young lady' me," She rolled her eyes. "I'm thirty-one, Jay. And I've seen eighty year-olds climb this slope, and they've got two decades on you."

He kept grumbling, but she ignored it as they continued to scale.

Brousseau was one of her Dad's favorites, growing up. It was a little out of their way, but the view was … the view was spectacular.

She remembered how it was, when she was Mari, climbing up the slope. The trees were like the books she'd read, the ones with elven forests and enchanted trees – it was beautiful and mystical, and when it was just her and Bree and Ada, bounding up …

It was still magical, but some of the shine was gone. She doubted the mountain had changed … it was just that she had.

She shook off her melancholy, spotting a marker.

"We're almost –" She cut herself off with a grin. "We're here."

She pulled out her water bottle, settling down on a rock warmed by the sun to take in the view. With heavy breathing and careful movements, Jay settled down next to her.

And when he finally was able to focus on anything other than the stitch in his side, his breath was knocked from him again by the view. She didn't blame him; the sight from the peak …

Breathtaking.

"That's Little Averill Pond," She told him after a moment, looking out on the profoundly blue body before them. "Out of our line of sight is Great Averill Pond."

They sat in silence, birds flew past – Red Tailed Hawks and other birds of prey she couldn't name.

Jason could probably name them all.

"You came here?"

"Yes," She nodded, a smile playing at her lips. "There's an ice cream joint, not too far from here. _Tiny_ thing but it's got double the flavors that Janice's has in those little tubs – at least back then – and we would use this hike as an excuse to get some. Case would get vanilla, the dork, and Ada would get Moose Tracks. Gabe would always get Double Chocolate and Dad would just steal bites from the rest of us."

"And you?" He asked, like he always did. "What did you get?"

"... I got Moose Tracks, like Ada," She answered, closing her eyes and carefully – oh so carefully – remembering. "But sometimes I would get Mint, instead. And I always pretended to get mad when Dad would steal a bite."

She opened her eyes. A cloud had passed over the sun, and the temperature had dropped sharply. She shivered – but it wasn't just the cold.

"You're getting better at that," He commented lightly.

She blows on her fingers, shoving them under her armpits.

"You don't have to be so afraid to remember," He coaxes her.

"But I still haven't …" She couldn't say it. She had to say it. "I still haven't remembered the worst of it."

"And for now, you won't," He replied simply. "Because you need to find who you are without your trauma before you can face it."

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a mountain," She mused, shoving her hands into her pockets. The rock was getting cold under her.

"Luckily we've more than all the King's horses and men going for us," He quipped back dryly.

"C'mon," She stood suddenly, didn't want to sit any longer. "There's an overlook, just down the way. Sometimes hawks make nests where we can see them."

And he so clearly saw her deflection, but he let it be. Because he knew that she needed time.

God, why did it have to take so much_ time?_

* * *

Hotch didn't like working in his office anymore.

Before everything, before his world fell apart again, Jane would get fed up with his long hours and drag him out to eat – shoving water at him instead of coffee, and forcing him to eat more than Clif Bars and breath mints. Or she would wait till he went to the restroom to pack up all of his files and drive to his house, leaving a note that if he wanted to get anything done he had to spend time with Jack first.

She was good, like that.

After he found out that Jane was actually Marisole Ryden, he did his research. He watched old videos circulated by news agencies, read eulogies. Looked over photos and anecdotes – anything to learn about Mari, who she really was.

How much of her was in Jane.

When days were long, and he was stuck in the turmoil of the BAU, he pulled out the flash drive he kept in the locked drawer of his desk. Put on the videos of Mari singing Happy Birthday to her sister, of her balancing a pile of books on her head – of her having a glaring contest with a goose.

And every time he watched Jane's smile on Mari's face. Saw the snippets of protective indignation or wry amusement or stubborn determination – saw that Mari wasn't dead.

It hurt to watch the videos now. Because not only was Mari not dead, she was back. And even if some part of Jane loved him … Mari didn't.

And she left before she could get a chance to.

So no, Hotch didn't like working in his office anymore. It was too big, like the gaping hole in his heart – the place where when Haley had died … Jane had stubbornly taken root, daring him to protest.

Where even Mari, with her colorful adornments and her endless smiles and her cheerful enthusiasm, had taken root.

Maybe if he hadn't allowed himself to love her ... it wouldn't hurt so much now, having her gone.

But it was too late, and he was too far gone.

'Distance makes the heart grow fonder' was accurate … but that didn't make his chest ache any less.

* * *

"Are you ready for this?"

Andy looked down on her, a worried expression plastered across his face. Vine couldn't help but laugh at his oh-so-concerned face – god did she love the man.

"This is going to be fine," She nodded, straightening her sweater and tugging the sleeves of her too-expensive jacket down to her wrists to cover her tattoos. "We're doing this right. We're doing this, and it's going to _work."_

Andy still frowned, not looking convinced. Or maybe it was just discomfort, wearing wing-tips and slacks.

"You know what to say," She nodded at him sharply, forcing herself not to clench her jaw. "Let's do this."

And with vials of blood clinking in her pocket, they put one foot in front of the other and enter the looming building before them.


	36. 36

"Why do you think that when we worked that case with the racist cult leader, the one with the Native American elements, that that man –"

"The Apache man? John Blackwolf?" She cut in.

"Yes, Blackwolf," Gideon nodded, "Why do you think he said that you looked like a soldier?"

She hummed, taking a moment to open the second box of preserves that Janice had ordered. Carefully lifting out each jar, she placed them on the shelves.

Restocking was always zen.

"Maybe because in a way, I was," She finally spoke, carefully poking at the wall of fear hiding her memories from her conscious mind. "When I got away …"

She was starting to get a headache. She slowed down, changed tactics.

"I lived on the streets, in Chicago, for a while with Vine and Daniel," She started over. "When I was there … well, every day when I woke up in that alley beside the tattoo parlor … it felt like I was a soldier getting ready for battle. That I had to arm myself, because I didn't know who my enemies were."

"So you fought every day like a war," He nodded, understanding. "In a way, every day is."

"So what are you fighting?" She can't help but ask, fingers trailing over the glass mason jars.

He doesn't speak for a long moment. She moves on to her third box.

"I'm fighting guilt," Jason finally spoke. "Fighting guilt over those that I lost, those I let slip away. People I should've been there for."

That was … pointed.

"I should've tracked you down," He finally came out and said it. "I should've let you tell me what was going on in that hospital waiting room, should've answered when you called years later, should've found you in Chicago so you never had to live like a soldier. I should've done so much for you, but I never did. Never could."

"You did so much for me," She forced herself to face him, crossing her arms over her chest, unrelated to the cold coming in through the gaps in the windows. "You inspired me when I was that little girl with wide eyes. Gave me something to strive for when I was a teenager trying to find her way. And even … even after. I held the hope that you would see my name in the news – Casey's name, Dad's – and you would stop –"

She cut herself off. Pushed back the surfacing thought.

"You saved me, before," She continued, skipping ahead. "You saved me when you saw a spunky, tired doctor in Boston and thought 'I should recruit her.' Saved me when you made me face what I remembered at the time, learn to trust and learn to let others in. You were my friend when all I had was Vine – who couldn't stand to be around me too long, because I wore her friend's face and had none of the love for her she remembered – and Aaron, who … well, Aaron didn't quite know what to do with me, at first."

"He figured out by the end, though," Gideon smiled his stupid, cheery smile at her. "He ever pluck up the courage to ask you out?"

She choked on air, sputtering, and Jay's deep, reverberating laughter made the walls shake with his humor and joy.

* * *

"When are you going to ask me again?" She finally mustered up the courage one day, as they rested at the end of a wooden bridge – gazing out over the thawing land.

"Whenever you're ready," He answered promptly, and she bit her lip in thought. _"Are_ you ready?"

"I don't know," She replied honestly. "I don't know …"

"Then I'll ask," Jason smiled at her gently. "And we can work through it together."

Something eased in her chest, and she settled down next to him on the steps. She took a deep breath as he watched her, and nodded.

"What's your name?"

She released the breath, and couldn't say a thing.

"Do you want to be Jane Doe again?" He asked after a long moment of silence, and she shook her head. "How about Ivy, the girl on the run with no last name and no history."

She hesitated.

"I don't think …" She picked through carefully. "I'm not her, anymore. I … I _was_ running from my past, but I can't anymore. You wouldn't let me, _Daniel_ wouldn't let me ... So ... no, I'm not runaway Ivy any more."

"Are you Elle?" He asked, and she pulled a face at that – he laughed. "No, I didn't think so. So what about Marisole Ryden?"

Her heart grew heavy at the name.

"I think …" She wet her lips. "I don't think I'm her, anymore."

She couldn't go on.

"And why not?" He prompted gently. "Why are you not Marisole Ryden? You have her memories, you remember _being_ her."

"I mean, I _am,"_ She tried to find the right words. "I _am_ Mari – but I can't _live_ like her, not anymore."

And now that she'd started, the words wouldn't stop.

"Mari was … _I _was happy, and carefree, and I had everything to live for – I read Rossi's book and I wanted to be there to _help_ people, to stop the horrible monsters," She scrubbed at her nose, running in the cold. "I was a kid, and when everything I had ever loved got swept out under me – shot right in front of me – I … Jason, I _can't _be her anymore. I can't _live_ like that little girl, because what part of me was her got twisted and torn and ground into dust."

She took a steadying breath. He looked on calmly.

"So I can't be Marisole Ryden," She swallowed dryly. "Even if I remember being her."

They sat in silence. Watched the birds.

"That only leaves one name," Gideon finally spoke. "And then the question becomes whether you decide to use it, or start over fresh – no one would begrudge you that."

She locked her jaw. Forced it open.

"Would you …?" She felt childish. "Would you ask, please?"

He smiled at her, took her hand in his.

"Are you Dr. Jane Hart?"

She swallowed. Took a deep breath. Straightened her spine.

And answered.

* * *

Quantico loomed before her, and the cold bite of Virginia wind made her shiver.

She pressed the phone harder to her cheek, fingers digging into her pocket even deeper.

"I'm nervous," She confessed. "I'm … I'm so beyond nervous I don't even have the words to say how nervous I am."

_"I know you are,"_ Gideon chuckled at her. _"But we both know that you've wanted to go back since the moment you left."_

"What …" She swallowed, scuffing her boot. "What do I even say?"

_"Try 'hello,'"_ He offered dryly, before ending the call.

So she took a deep breath and pocketed her phone. Straightened her spine, tugged at her gloves. Walked into the building.

It was a strange echo, of sorts, of all those years ago when she joined – God, nearly a decade – and weaved her way through security to make it to the sixth floor.

It felt a bit like coming home.

She entered the elevator, hit six. Watched as the numbers climbed.

The doors opened soundlessly, and belatedly she realized that she probably should've known that they would be on a case. That the bullpen would be empty.

Morgan's old desk was filled. The pile of textbooks and bright pens suggested a rookie, probably a young woman. It was good, she told herself, they deserved all the help they could get.

(She pushed back the inkling of discomfort at the thought of a stranger in her … in her family. Such negative emotions weren't worth shit.)

JJ's office was still empty, unfortunately, but Morgan's had his haphazard pile of files still, along with what looked like his go bag poking out from under his desk. A local job, then. Or a short one.

Hotch's …

Aaron's desk was it's usual manner of controlled chaos, and she didn't bother holding back her smile at the picture of the three of them – Rin, Little Bear, and herself – framed on his desk, right next to a photo of Haley and Jack as a baby.

She ghosted a finger over Jack's face. She wondered how much he'd changed.

Through the open door, she heard a _whoosh _of the elevator opening, and she steeled herself. Put one foot in front of another – wishing futilely that she had her satchel to wind her fingers around its strap.

She stopped at the base of the steps up to the walkway.

Her eyes found the stranger first – young, blonde, and … having clearly just been crying. Or holding back tears.

She frowned, then refocused when she heard a loud, pained gasp of recognition.

Her eyes had only just locked with Penny's before she was practically tackled by her.

"You're _back,"_ Penny sobbed, voice thick and tears flowing and at this point her shirt was going to be soaked – not that you could tell through the dark fabric. "You came back – you – you – you –"

She hugged the Tech Analyst back, not able to see past her mass of hair and instead just focusing on what little comfort she could give.

"Hello," She choked out, following Jay's advice.

(Ignoring the flash of fear and worry in her gut.)

"Is … is that you?" LeFay's voice broke through, sounding out over Penny's devolving sobs. "Baby Girl, let her breath. Ja– Did you really come back?"

Then someone – she didn't know who – was peeling Garcia off of her, and Morgan was there – cupping her face in his hands. His gaze was intense, searching, and with a thick laugh he reached over and _boing_-ed one of her curls.

"You cut your hair," He laughed, but … but something was still_ wrong._

"Needed …" She cleared her throat. "Needed a change."

"It's good on you," He smiled at her, soaking her in. "I'm … I'm glad you're back."

"We're all glad you're back," Someone else cut in – and she turned, startled at the familiar sound.

"Jayje?" She asked, startled – turning to glance back at where her office was. "But I thought you –"

And again her words were cut off, but by a warm, steady hug from the blonde Liaison. She let her words trail, instead just focusing on hugging her back.

What was going _on?_

"Okay, enough," She pulled back – ending up scaling a few steps in order to get away. "What's going on? You guys … I wasn't – you shouldn't – why're you –?"

Then she took in the whole group. Garcia still sobbing. Morgan, comforting Garcia. JJ still _looking_ at her. The blonde newbie, looking on – sad and confused. Reid, collapsing in on himself. Hotch –

"Where's Emily?" She asked, bewildered.

Faces crumpled.

_"Where's Emily?" _She asked again, her own panic rising – locking eyes with the only person who would _tell her._ "Rin, Rin where's Emily?"

He just looked at her, and the world fell out from under her.

"No," She shook her head – whipped her head back and forth because _no._ "No, don't tell me that."

"Doc …" Morgan tried, but she shoved him off.

_"No!"_ She let out a strangle shout, and they all fell silent. She couldn't break off from where she and Rin had locked eyes. "No, because _I came back."_

The team parted like the Red Sea, but she couldn't've cared less.

"I came _back!"_ She repeated, voice growing louder – and it was all building in her chest again and all she could think was _not again not again not again._ "I came _back._ I came back, because it was going to be okay again. I was going to be Jane again, and it was going to be _okay _because I was going to have my family again and I came _back."_

Penny took a step towards her, but Morgan held her back.

Rin just stared her down.

"How?" She demanded – _had to know_. _"How?"_

"No," Hotch shook his head, holding up a hand to silence the rest of the team. "No, Jane. I'm not going to tell you that."

"Hotch," Reid tried to speak up – voice strangled – but the Unit Chief shot him a look.

"Everybody out," He ordered slowly, and she …

Just watched them go.

"I came back," She choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. "Rin, I came _back."_

"I know you did."

He just _stood there._

"I came _back,"_ She realized she was crying. "I came back, but –"

"There was nothing you could've done," He soothed her – stood, soothing her, six fucking feet away.

"You don't know that," She snapped, anger creeping up on her. "You should've replaced me. Should've gotten another doctor – one whose head isn't so fucked up. Then you could've _saved her."_

"Do you really think you're so easily replaceable?" He asked.

"How long?" She demanded, not answering.

He stared her down.

"How long?" She repeated, and she had to know – she _had to._

He didn't answer.

"Hotchner," She growled, fingers curling into fists – but her anger deflated, couldn't sustain itself.

Because he just looked at her.

She bowed her head. Exhaustion, shame.

"Eight hours ago she went into surgery," He answered, oh so soft. "She never made it off the table."

She collapsed to her knees as if her strings were cut – he caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her gently to the floor with him.

He smelled like musk and shaving cream.

He held her close.

"I took the train," She whispered. "I took the train, because I thought it would be … would be symbolic, or something. Would give me more time to think."

He pulled her closer. His lapel pressed against her cheek.

"I would've been here," She croaked. "I _should've _been here, if I had just taken a plane."

He said nothing.

They sat there for … hours? Minutes? Years? Months?

Seconds?

"Mari …" He finally spoke, and she shoved away from him – met his eyes, _had _to meet his eyes.

"No," She shook her head. Tried for a smile, almost succeeded. _"Jane."_

Rin studied her, and she studied him. His eyes were just as dark as she remembered, even if they were oh-so-much heavier.

"Jane," He repeated, an echo of a smile at his lips, before it slipped away. "This wasn't your fault."

"Rin," she just shook her head. "Of course it is."

And he bowed his head forward, and she did the same. Their foreheads met, and her eyes slipped closed with a sigh – all of her energy melting into the floor.

She was home.

For what it was worth.

(Her home always got the people in it killed.)

A hand ghosted at her cheek, skimming over her wind-chapped skin. Jane opened her eyes, leaned back to look back into his.

He didn't smile.

But he leaned forward oh-so slowly, and their lips brushed.

She leaned back. Searched his gaze.

And then she raised a hand, ran a finger over the scruff at his jawline …

Eyes locked, breath mingled.

And she closed her eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

* * *

**Holy shit that was a marathon.**

**HELLO! I DID IT!**

**I wanted to get this whole arc out, bam bam bam, because every day I check my email hoping for another chapter - so be the change you want to be in the world, right?**

**And now this arc is through! She is finally back, and I am a sadist for not giving you more.**

**I want this quarantine to be as livable as it can be. And because of that, I am opening things up. If you have things you want to see, read, or have done - PLEASE tell me. I make no promises, but I want to give you what you all WANT to read. So please, if you have a request, comment or review and I'll take it into consideration.**

**But please keep in mind that I am one of the lucky ones - I am able to continue working through these times. So I will endeavor to give you everything I can, but I can't promise this level of updating again.**

**ALL MY LOVE. Stay healthy, stay safe, and please - take the time you need for yourselves.**

**\- Milo Of The Key**


	37. 37

Jane dug her fingers into the damp earth.

Emily's tombstone loomed before her. It was so big. So small.

It was like it was mocking her – a beautiful tribute for a beautiful woman. And all she could do was stare.

Jane didn't know how long she sat there until the footsteps came. Didn't care, either, because the sun had just come out from behind a cloud and the way that the sun hit the polished marble made the sight just that much more breathtaking.

Emily would've been smug to have a picturesque grave.

"I thought that I'd find you here."

She didn't look up at him, but she didn't need to. Dave, ignoring the number of zeros on his suit's price tag, sat down next to her on the damp earth. They sat in silence a moment longer before he spoke.

"It's been a month."

A month since Emily died. A month since she came back. A month since Hotch kissed her, and she kissed back. A month since she came back and tried to put the pieces back together again.

One month.

One, eternal, lousy, blissful, _heart wrenching_ month.

"Is it bad?" She was suddenly asking. "That I don't even feel like she's really gone. That I don't feel like any of them are?"

Dave considered her question for a moment. The clouds passed back over the sun.

"No, I don't think it's bad," Dave replied. "It just is."

The temperature dropped. She dug her fingers more deeply into the earth.

"She would've been happy that you visited her. That you came back."

"Why are you really here, Dave?" Jane turned to face him, studying his worn face – hating the forced small talk, the platitudes spilling from his lips. "You visit with Reid, on Sundays. You're not here for Emily – you're here for me."

"Indeed I am," Dave cocked his head, and she turned away from his searching gaze. "Because it's been a month."

"And?"

"It's been a month," The Italian repeated. "And you still haven't talked about it."

"Yes, I have," Jane shook her head, clenching her fists. "I talk to Dr. Bendell, and I talk to Rin and Spinner and Penny –"

"But you don't talk to me," He cut her off. "And you don't on purpose."

She didn't respond.

"Because you know that I won't let you skirt the subject."

She grit her teeth.

"You have been back a month, and we've learned more about Mari and Ivy and the people you used to be and the lives you used to live …" Dave spun words. "But you still haven't talked about how your family died. How you got those scars – how you ended up an amnesiac. Why you ran. From us, from Chicago."

Her throat felt dry.

"I haven't remembered everything," Her voice came out a horse whisper. "And I don't want to."

"I know," Dave smiled at her, a tad sharply. "But Mari …"

She looked up at him.

"Mari, you do remember _something,"_ He pressed. "You do, and that's why you ran."

"I don't want to talk about it," She shut him down, but he just laughed coarsely."

"Oh, Mari," He chuckled with gallows humor. "You don't have a choice. I'm not _giving_ you a choice."

"We have to do this now? _Here?" _Jane gestured at Prentiss' grave.

"You and I both know that Emily wouldn't let this conversation happen without sticking her nose into it anyway," Dave pointed out wryly, and Jane felt her heart twinge with the truth of it.

Neither of them speak for a long moment.

"I just …" Jane struggled to find the words. She always struggled to find the words. "I just … I just don't want to answer a million questions. Like I'm a victim or a witness or something."

"Even if you are?" Dave jogged her shoulder. "A witness and a victim?"

She didn't answer.

"When you were with Gideon," Dave changed tactics. "How did you two work things out?"

"With facts," Jane answered promptly. "He said … something. And then I said if it was true or not."

"Would you like to do it like that?" Dave offered. She just nodded.

"Okay then," Dave adjusted his legs with a grunt, rubbing at his back comically. "Fact one: you were born Marisole Lotus Ryden."

"True," Jane nodded, scraping a muddied hand across her pants. "I remember being Mari. Remember being her, growing up as her. I am her – was her."

"Fact two," Dave continued. "When you, Marisole Ryden, were 16 years old your family was murdered."

"True," Jane nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and shoving back against the memories threatening to spill forth. "They died in November. Right after Bree turned 15."

"Fact number three," Dave's voice grew softer, more precise. "When you were 16, after your family was killed, you escaped to Chicago where you met Daniel and Amina Vite."

"True," She nodded shakily, feeling tension rise in her chest. "Daniel and Amina took me in. Did my ink."

"Fact number four," Dave pressed gently, slowly. "Liber killed Daniel, and kidnapped you."

"No, it wasn't Liber –" She choked on her words. "Liber killed Danny, but she didn't hurt me. She couldn't."

"Then who did," Dave pressed, firm. "Jane, do you know who hurt you? Who was Liber's accomplice?"

"I don't remember," Jane shook her head, eyes clamped shut. She could feel a headache forming. "I don't remember."

"Jane, who killed Bree?" Dave was still asking, still pushing. "Who killed your Mom? Your Dad? Who took you, who cut you? C'mon, Jane, you know this. You know who it is and you _know_ he's still coming after you. Just give me a name. C'mon Jane, you know this. Who was he –?"

Her head was _splitting._

She shoved it back, shoved it all back. Locked it all inside her head and suddenly she was standing and her heart was pounding and she couldn't hear what he was saying anymore and she wanted to just _run away _and she was going to but then Rossi had grabbed her by the shoulder and she couldn't _breathe _and –

_"Ivy,"_ He was chanting, over and over – calming her down. "Ivy, it's okay. It's okay, it's just me and you. Just me and you. Me and you, Ivy, me and you."

Her heart slowed down.

"I don't want to remember it," She gasped for air, bowing her head. "Please, _please_ don't make me remember Him. Please don't make me, _please."_

"Okay," He drew her into his chest, arms a warm, firm embrace. Tucked her under his chin, where it was _safe._ "I'm sorry, but I had to. I had to push, Jane, I had to. I had to know how far we could go, I won't do it again."

She inhaled. Exhaled.

"I won't do it again," He petted her hair. And it reminded her of Rob. "I won't push again, I promise."

* * *

"It's been a month."

Second time in a week she'd heard that.

"So they tell me," She grimaced at Reid's statement, reminding her of the lovely exchange in the graveyard.

Jane watched as he set up the chess set, carefully and deliberately placing each and every piece on the board. White facing him, black facing her.

"So they tell me," She repeated, turning back to stare down the camera on it's tripod. "Is this really necessary?"

"The camera?" Spinner cocked his head. "Or the evaluation itself."

She didn't answer.

"You know that if you want to go back in the field with us, you need to be evaluated," Spinner reasoned. "Strauss wants to be able to defend you and her choice to let you back into the field to anyone and everyone."

He finished setting up the board.

"And yes, the camera is necessary. Morgan and Hotch insisted."

Jane harrumphs, crossing her arms. Spinner just sent her a wry smile.

"Fine," She decided aloud, turning to face him again. "But I don't want this to be like how you interview an Unsub or a victim. You know I hate that."

"Of course not," Reid smiled at her, almost shyly. "We're just talking."

She sat across from him. He made the first move.

"You're back in your own house?" He queried – trying for nonchalantly and falling slightly short. She appreciated his effort, at least, and his eyes were on the board and not on her. "Back in your own bed, with your own clothes … that must feel nice."

"It still feels kinda foreign," She allowed, scooching a knight to counter his offense. "I was away for … well, I hadn't been home for months, trying to forget all of this."

"But you came back," Reid commented. He countered her counter. "Do you regret coming back? Picking up pieces, instead of starting over?"

"Not really," She shook her head, forcing herself to answer honestly. "I mean I missed … missed _helping _people. Missed _meaning_ something. This work … it's worth it. So ... no. I don't regret coming back."

"Don't regret coming back to the team?" Reid teased coyly. "Or don't regret coming back to _Hotch?"_

"Spinner!" Jane exclaimed, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.

"What?" He asked innocently. "It's important to evaluate the progress and evolution of your relationships. Your budding intimate relationship with Agent Hotchner is a key part of your forward momentum and recovery."

"Or _maybe_ you're just a meddling gossip hoping to set up his coworkers," Jane shot back, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. "And anyway, it was just a kiss."

"Two kisses, from what I saw." He corrected her, and Jane could feel her ears burning. "And two kisses that were years in coming, if you listen to Morgan and Garica. And Rossi. And JJ –"

"Oh, shut it," She grumbled, realizing abruptly that it was her turn. "Anyway, nothing's going to happen. Not with –"

She cut herself off.

"Not with Emily dying," Spencer finished for her softly. "Not with Emily dead."

She didn't answer.

"Emily wouldn't want you to put your life on hold for her," Reid offered, voice gentle. "She wouldn't want the two of you to put aside her own happiness because of her. In fact, she would hate it."

"When did you become the expert?" She grumbled. "And … kinda hard not to …"

Reid pouted at her.

"Sometimes it feels like … like the time's never right." She sighed, fiddling with a claimed bishop. "That everything is just conspiring against us. That it's never gonna happen."

"Maybe," Reid shrugged, letting the topic go and resuming the game. "You kept the haircut."

"I was just going to leave it be," Jane latched onto the lifeline. "But Garcia threatened bodily harm via LeFay – and financial harm via the all powerful Oracle of Quantico. So I just let her run the show."

"It is neater now," Reid smiled, claiming a rook. "More like how I'm styling my hair these days."

"Just what I need," She snorted. "Matching haircuts with Dr. Spencer Reid. The BAU doctors: practically twins."

They both chuckle. Play a few more turns in silence.

"How are you getting along with Seaver?" Spencer asked after she nabbed one of his knights. "Getting to know her?"

"Yeah, well enough. It's weird, that she's so integrated in the team when …" She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Well, you all know her and I … don't. But I guess that's my fault."

"I won't say that running off like that was a good idea," Her fellow doctor shrugged, speaking lightly. "But you were reacting. You were just reacting."

She studied the board. Moved a pawn.

"You've been seeing that therapist, right?" Jane could feel Spencer's eyes boring into her. "Dr. Bendell?"

"Yeah, she's nice," Jane shrugged noncommittally. "I know I need to talk. But I preferred talking with Gideon."

Reid nearly gets her queen. She moves to claim his bishop instead.

"I talked to Dr. Bendell, actually," Reid mused, ignoring her comment about Gideon – thank god, _that_ was not a can of worms either of them wanted to open. "Read her reports. And there's one thing that you still haven't talked about."

Jane tried not to tense.

"And I don't mean your memories – I talked to Rossi, we know that it's not safe for you to push that," Reid backtracked, clarifying. "Jane, I'm talking about why you don't trust us."

Jane sat back abruptly, surprised and a little insulted.

"Of course I trust you," She snapped, defensive. "I trust all of you."

"Then why do you keep lying?"

She snapped her jaw shut. Spencer just looked on.

"Do you know why I'm the one conducting this evaluation?" Reid asked suddenly, startling her into locking eyes with him. "Why it's not Strauss or Hotch or Dave or some independent they brought in?"

She shook her head, brow crinkling.

"Part of it is because you don't trust strangers, don't like strangers," Reid stared her down. "And the rest is because if you were being questioned by Hotch, by Dave, by Morgan – they wouldn't be able to talk to you about this how we should. The _right way."_

He moved his queen.

"If Hotch was in here, he would be professional to the extreme," Spinner explained, studying the board. "Dave would press and press until you reacted – possibly violently and probably detrimentally. With Morgan … well, he's still feeling guilty about making you remember, forcing you to relive everything. None of them would be able to _talk. _Not really."

"And you can?"

She moved her rook.

"You tell me."

She moved to counter his bishop.

"Mari …" She clenched her fists as he uttered her name. "How much do you actually remember?"

"Enough," She grits out. "I remember enough."

"I'm sorry, but that's not gonna cut it," He shook his head. "Mari, you don't remember everything. You're still suppressing some memories – and that's normal, healthy even. But there are some things you _do_ remember, even if you're not telling us. Even _though_ you're not telling us. And you _have to tell us."_

She stayed silent.

"You ran because the floodgates opened in your head," He pressed. "And you were facing the deaths of your whole family all over again, feeling the pain as if it was new. But it wasn't just that. You ran because you thought someone was chasing you. _Knew_ someone was chasing you."

Her throat was dry.

"Someone is or was coming after you," He repeated. "And you didn't turn to any of us. Because you don't trust us."

She couldn't look at him.

"And you know we're a good team, Mari," Reid stared at her earnestly, game abandoned. "We're the best – you _know that._ So why won't you turn to us? _Tell_ us? _Trust_ us?"

She moved her queen.

"I think it's because you're still terrified."

Her fingernails were biting through her gloves into the flesh of her palms.

"Whoever killed your family, whoever hurt you – whoever gave you those scars_,"_ Reid's voice became even softer. "We never caught him. We didn't even know he existed until we caught Liber – but you _know_ he does. You've seen him – you may even know his name. Where he is. What he wants from you."

She forced herself to keep her breathing level. Steady. Even.

"And do you know what that says about him?" Reid's voice dropped, oh so very gentle. "When, even now, you can't talk about him? Can't confide in us about him? It tells me that whatever he did to you ... you don't think that we can beat him. You_ truly believe _that there is nothing that you or I or Hotch or the team can do. That anyone can do."

Jane forced herself to look up at him. His eyes … were just _so,_ so understanding.

"I …" She chokes on the words in her throat. "I don't remember. Not yet."

He waits patiently. Forces her to continue.

"I don't want to – and even if I did …" She swallowed roughly. Like there was glass in her throat. "You can't stop Him, Spinner. No one can stop Him."

"That isn't true," He rebuked her softly. "That's just what years of abuse and trauma is forcing you to think."

"Maybe," She shrugged, locking the tempest of emotions back behind the steel door in her head, where they belonged. "Maybe not. But you can't catch him. Can't stop him."

"Not if you don't let us in, Jane," Reid locked her gaze. "Not if you don't give us something."

She shifted her bishop.

"Checkmate, Reid," She stood sharply. "This evaluation is over."

And with that, she reached over and flicked his king, sending it toppling off the board.

* * *

She was back at Emily's … Emily's grave.

Second time that week.

She needed … needed someone who wouldn't _interrogate _her. Wouldn't try and … pin her down.

Pity the only person who did that for her these days was dead.

"Everyone has the same questions for me," She speaks to the marble marker. "'What happened? How did your family die? How did you get those scars? How how how how _how?'"_

She fiddled with her bracelet. Just like the one she had as a kid.

The last thing that Uncle Rob ever gave her.

And she didn't even realize it at the time.

"It's in my head, somewhere," She murmured. "I know it is. But I don't want to go looking for it. I already … I already feel like I'm barely holding myself together as it is."

The wind whistles.

"Dr. Bendell says that I need to let them come on their own, the memories," She bit her lip. "That if I try to try to remember too much too soon, I might forget everything all over again. Might have to start from scratch, just like I did after … after."

The clouds get thicker.

"I never told you, did I?" Jane smiles, suddenly struck. "Hotch kissed me, did you know?"

She laughed. Pretended that it didn't sound strained, even to her own ears.

"He kissed me," Jane smiled, tugging at a lock of her hair; then her smile began to fade. "Really not the most appropriate timing though. I mean, I had just found out – you had just – you … _died."_

She choked on the words. Pulled herself together.

"And he kissed me," She finished. "And then – then I kissed him."

She laughed again, chest heavy. Like there was an anchor behind her sternum, crushing her from the inside.

"He's a good kisser," She snorts, imagining the intrigued and disturbed look on Prentiss' face had she … had she been there. "I mean, he was married for years. He grew up normal and probably dated a bunch of people – I mean, have you _seen_ him? Of course he's a good kisser."

If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Emily's shocked, startled laughter.

"He hasn't … we haven't talked about it since," She sighed, tugging at her ear. "I mean, I wanted to … and I think he did too … but you're dead and I'm broken and fucking _fraternization rules –"_

The sun peaked out through the clouds, just for a moment, but then it slipped right back behind and the evening was even darker than it was before.

"I miss you," She crouches, sitting in the damp grass – ignoring the mud and the cold, because it doesn't matter. She traces her fingers over Emily's name. "I miss you."

Emily doesn't answer.

"It's not fair," She spoke to the air, breathing in the beautiful, beautiful day. "Why does everyone die?"

The wind is silent.

"Because that's what people do," She clutches herself, fingers leeched of blood. "People die. Family dies – my family always dies."

Nothing.

"You know, you …" She swallowed. "I had this … this fantasy. After … when I was in Vermont. I was just thinking …"

Her cheeks were wet.

"I just had this picture, in my head," Jane scrubbed at her face. "You and LeFay were playing pool, trying to con each other out of your money. And Gideon and Spinner were playing a round of chess and Dave was ribbing both of them for their moves. JJ and Garcia were playing Candyland with Henry and Little Bear and … and Rin and I were just watching. Sitting. Together."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat got thick, stuck.

"And then when I went _home,"_ She choked out. "When I went home I'd have a dozen messages on my answering machine. From Dad, from Rob – from Bree and Ada and Case …"

She tried to muster a smile. It hurt.

"And I know that I couldn't have all of that, not even close," Jane dug her fingers into the grass. "But I thought that … that maybe I could have some of it. Just a bit."

Emily still didn't answer.

"Everyone dies," She repeated. "Everyone dies. But you – Emily, you were a survivor."

She cleared her throat, scrubbed at her face again – leaving a line of mud from the ground, no doubt.

"You were supposed to survive," She whispered.

Jane swiped at her face again.

"I love you, Emily Prentiss," She lifted a hand to trace over the engravings on the tombstone, lingering on her name. "If you see the rest of my family … tell them I love them, too."


	38. 38

"Hotch, imma head out early," Jane called out to him, stopping him in the hallway. "Do you need me to pick up Jack?"

"No, Jessica has him," Hotch smiled, smiling at her ease. "Are you going out?"

"JJ and Penny are thinking a girl's night," Jane shrugged, rolling her shoulders. "Figured I'd join them."

"Have fun," Hotch wished her, watching as she hit the elevator's button. It dinged open almost immediately.

She kept smiling until the doors closed between them.

"I gotta be honest, Aaron," Rossi stepped up beside him, startling him. "I never took you for the cowardly type."

"I don't know what you're talking about," He tries to skirt the conversation, to dismiss – but Dave quite literally holds him in his tracks.

"Hey, now," Dave squeezed his shoulder, stopping him from exiting the conversation the easy way. "This conversation is long overdue."

"Dave …" Aaron would deny that he was pleading … but, well, he was pleading.

"Nope, you are too old to whine like that," Dave steered him towards the bullpen. "And I'm too old to listen to it."

And then they're in Dave's office, and Hotch is left feeling like he just got sent to the principal's.

"I saw that kiss," Dave hooked his thumbs into his jeans, settling his weight. "In fact, I saw _two _kisses. We all did."

"That was unprofessional," Hotch tried to explain – but an 'ah ah _ah'_ cut him off with an olive finger wagged in his face.

_"You_ need to just suck it up and ask her out already," Dave deadpanned. "You just need to do it. Because the moment I walked into this bullpen years ago, coming back for round two, I saw that there was something between you and her. I saw it then, and I sure as hell see it now."

"The fraternization rules –"

"Are more like guidelines, to prevent sexual harassment," Rossi cut him off again. "And I distinctly saw her initiate that second smooch."

Hotch grimaced.

"And if this is about the timing, because of Emily?" Dave continued in a lighter tone. "Or maybe because of Haley?"

Hotch grimaced again.

"Then you just need to suck it up, and acknowledge that you cannot mourn forever, that you aren't _expected _to," Dave sighed, exasperated. "Haley would want you to be happy – actually even_ told you_ to be happy. And Emily would be _furious_ if she got in the way of the two of you getting together."

Hotch tried to come up with some argument. Some justification. But … he couldn't. All of his reasons were weak excuses, and he knew it. Jack loved Jane, and Haley and he were divorced when she died, and Jane was getting better, and Emily –

Well, Emily wasn't actually dead.

"I don't …" He groaned in frustration. "I don't even know _how."_

"Aaron Hotchner," The older profiler scoffed, clearly amused. "Do you mean to tell me that the reason that you have been dancing around Jane like you're in a Shakespeare play is because you _don't know how to ask her out?"_

"Shut up," He deadpanned, forcing down his embarrassment. "It's not like I've been in the dating scene much. Not since Haley and I were first together – and _she_ asked _me_ out."

"This is pathetic," Dave deadpanned. "This is pathetic, and we are both well aware of just _how_ pathetic. You kissed her _three months ago._ Man up Hotchner – if you can stare down a serial killer, you can ask Jane out on a date."

His sharp laughter followed Hotch out of the office.

* * *

Jane frowned at the acuka.

"MJ?" Jessica poked her in the arm, startling her out of her stupor. "Mari Jane. _Jane."_

"What – yes!" Jane shook herself, focusing on the other woman. "Sorry, Jess. Thinking."

"Something wrong with the … whatever?" Jessica gestured vaguely at the mediteranian fare. "You've got a frown on your face that could rival Aaron's."

"No, nothing like that," Jane forced a smile, grabbing a slice of pita. "Just distracted. I felt like … I feel like I'm forgetting something."

Jessica stared at her for a long moment.

"Is that a joke?" The blonde cocked an eyebrow at her, and Jane caught the … oddness of her statement.

The amnesiac feels like she's forgetting something. Sounded like the punchline to a bad joke.

"No, nothing like that," Jane shook her head, trying for a grin. "And 'MJ'? What am I, a Marvel character?"

"Well it isn't fair that you're the only one who skirted a nickname, _MJ,"_ Jessica grinned at her. "And what can I say? The little rascals have been on a Spiderman kick – sue me."

"You know my best friend's a lawyer – I can actually do that," Jane pointed out with mock severity, before laughing. "Speaking of, Rin should be back soon. Is Jack staying here tonight or with you at yours?"

"He'll be coming to sleep over with his cousins," Jessica answered brightly. "Leaving you and Aaron by your lonesome. Think you'll survive?"

"Jess –" Jane warned, but was cut off by the sound of Jack stampeding down the stairs. "Little Bear! No running!"

"But Dad's home!"

* * *

Hotch shucked his tie, dropped his suitcase, and then immediately fell onto the couch in a boneless slump. Jane followed suit, crashing into an armchair.

Taking care of kids was exhausting. Even getting kids out the _door _was exhausting. Even if it was 'kid' – singular – and Jessica leading the charge.

Exhausting. Gah.

"Strauss is downsizing us – budget cuts," He grumbled, and Jane felt her stomach drop.

"Shit."

"Shit is right," He sighed deeply. "Temporary, I hope. But with Seaver transferring to join Andi in Domestic Trafficking …"

"Damn," She replied in kind, weary and exhausted. "Even with JJ coming over to be a profiler? God, why does _everything _have to go belly up?"

"Because luck is for gamblers and leprechauns," Hotch shook his head on, scrubbing at his face. "They want to send me to the Middle East."

"You're kidding," Jane sat up, exhaustion forgotten. "The_ Middle East?"_

"I don't like it any more than you do," Hotch sighed deeply, face creasing. "I still haven't told Jessica – or Jack, for that matter."

"What about me?" Jane suddenly realized. "Wait, if they're downsizing –"

"You're still not fully reinstated," Hotch confirmed grimmly. "Which means that you won't be until my assignment is done. Something that will take months."

"Months as in two or months as in seven?"

He didn't answer.

She stood, started to pace – too much energy in her bones.

"Months," She echoed, arms crossed tightly. _"Months?"_

"It won't be too bad," Hotch tried to reassure her. "You need to work out the legal and technical aspects with Colemyer anyway, right? Now you can work in-office and have more time to dedicate to cleaning up after Liber. Claim your inheritance."

"An inheritance I didn't _want,"_ She grumbled. But then she had to cave, because he was giving her a sad, pathetic look that didn't belong anywhere near his grim chin. "Yes, I will deal with the legal mumbo jumbo so that I will not be convicted of tax fraud –" She held up a hand in a bastardized oath "– Scout's honor."

"You were never a Scout," He rolled his eyes. She snorted, and returned to pacing.

"And I'd … I'd like it if you checked in on Jack, when I'm gone," Hotch snapped her back to the present. "And … I was thinking …"

He didn't seem to be able to find the words. She cocked her head at him.

"Always a dangerous pastime," Jane quipped at him, amused by his fluster. But he didn't laugh. "Seriously though, what's on your –"

"When I get back from Pakistan," Hotch broke in, sitting up straight and lacing his fingers. "I was hoping that you would … grab dinner with me?"

She froze.

He froze.

"Like … as friends?" Jane forced out the words. He –

He _blushed._

"No, I meant – I mean as more than friends," Hotch shifted, restless. "As a date."

She stared.

He stared.

"Oh."

Then it hit her.

_"Oh!"_

"Yeah, 'oh'," Hotch smiled nervously – looking nothing like the serious, powerful profiler he was. "So …?"

"Oh!" Jane repeated, feeling like a stuck, stupid record. "I, well … yes. Yes. I'd like that, yes."

His answering grin nearly split his face, it was so wide.

* * *

_"O. M. G."_

"Penny …" Jane groaned, sorting through her meagre closet.

_"Hotch asked you out,"_ The Technical Analyst practically bubbled, her energy bursting even across the phone line. "Hotch _asked you out. Hotch asked _you _out. Hotched asked you _out!"

"You know – no matter how many times you change the inflection, the meaning still stays the same," Jane deadpanned, pulling out a hanger. "Hey, you know my charcoal button down? The silky one that I stole from JJ?"

_"Are you gonna wear it to the date?"_

"What –? No!" Jane blinked, pulling a face. "No, god we don't even have a – it's not ever for – You know what? Nevermind. I need to look professional, I have a meeting."

_"Oh. Boring," _Garcia pouted. _"Wait, what meeting? And why can't you just wear what you usually do? You dress … professionally? Ish?"_

"Because I'm not going as Dr. Jane Hart – mysterious and occasionally robotic amnesiac," She grimaced, dropping the top on her bedspread and diving back into her dresser, juggling her phone. "I'm going as Dr. Marisole Ryden, lost heiress and soon-to-be-made-official billionaire. I need to look more than just 'ish'."

Penny was silent on the other end.

"Pen –?"

_"You're going to take charge of the Colemyer Estate,"_ Penny connects the dots, parsing out each word slowly, with mounting excitement. _"You're going to be _rich. _Oh my lord of tetris and –"_

"Pen, if you start swearing by Nintendo I'm not gonna let you Penetration Test the security system."

A beat.

_"You wouldn't dare."_

"Watch me."

Another beat.

_"Holy shit you'd actually let me hack your company?"_ Garcia suddenly burst. _"Oh. My. God. I totally will. I totally _should_ – you are fantastic, oh my lord –"_

"Yeah yeah, I know I'm great," Jane cut her off – _again._ "But with Hotch off playing GI Joe: Pakistan Edition, you're my only hope. The fuck'm I supposed to _wear?"_

* * *

Jane was sorting through some paperwork when the call came in. She answered it on reflex, not realizing until the Skype call flickered to life that she wasn't actually wearing more than just a tank top and some cut off sweats.

Oh well. Aaron had seen her in worse.

_"I didn't mean to interrupt if you were going to bed,"_ Hotch voice crackled through, his scraggly voice matching his scraggly appearance._ "I keep forgetting about time zones."_

"Just going over some legal mumbo jumbo before I hit the hay," She waved off his worry. "Hey, do you know what a 8949 form is?"

_"Stock tax form, detailing the trades you made throughout the year,"_ Hotch answered promptly, smiling as she jotted that down quickly on a pink sticky note. _"You're doing all of this yourself? Don't you have lawyers for this stuff?"_

"I suddenly and rather violently inherited a multi-billion dollar company with no background in business or law," Jane huffed, scratching a quick annotation. "If I don't learn this now, another … well, another Liber is just gonna sneak in and take it all from under my nose. If I can breeze through medical school in 20 months, I can learn to be a businesswoman in three. Maybe four."

_"How does it feel to be richer than Rossi?"_ Hotch asked wryly, shifting his laptop as he settled back in his cot. Sunlight glared across his face, throwing the lines of his face into sharp relief.

"Odd," Jane answered after a moment, searching her papers for a particular stack. "But not that different. I'm just gonna end up donating almost all of it anyway … Let's just hope you don't like me for my money."

She grinned at him, amused by the way his beard curled as he barked with laughter.

"That scruff is, well …" She shook her head, dropping her pen to pull her hair off her neck. "How's Little Bear liking it?"

_"He says that I look more like a bear now, so that's points in my favor," _Hotch laughed again, his eyes crinkling. _"But I don't think he'll like it when I kiss him goodnight."_

"Never dated anyone with a beard before," Jane mused, patting herself down for a hair tie. "Something new every day, right?"

She located one holding together some files. She gave it up for a lost cause, letting her hair fall.

And then she realized that Hotch had gone silent.

_"We're … dating?"_ Hotch asked, and if she didn't know him better she'd say he was _shy. "I didn't … didn't know that we'd gotten that far."_

"Well, you did ask me out," Jane tugged at her ear. "So I guess – maybe? Is that … bad?"

_"No, it's not that,"_ Hotch shook his head, a small smile hiding behind his scruff. _"I just …"_

He looked up suddenly, past the camera and past the screen. Someone was shouting, and Hotch frowned at the distorted words.

_"I gotta go," _He stood, apologetic but coiled for action. _"Gotta go. I'll talk to you later."_

"Okay," Jane nodded, knowing the drill. "See you. I've got a board meeting tomorrow – I'll call you after."

He nodded distractedly, his focus somewhere else.

_"Love you."_

And the screen went dark.

And Jane's heart hammered in her chest.

* * *

"Ms. Colemyer –"

Jane turned to leave – her picturing Rin's judgy expression at her tempter the only thing stopping her from blowing her top.

_Just keep cool. Just keep cool. Just –_

"Ms. _Colemyer!"_

"Mr. Meadowes," She whirled around to face him, eyes narrowed and temper flaring. "I know that it would be useless to ask you to refer to me as 'Hart,' or even as 'doctor' – but at the _very _least do me the _courtesy_ to refer to me by my birth name – my _father's name."_

"... Very well, then," The WASP-y brown noser finally agreed – _reluctantly._ "Ms. Ryden, I must _insist_ that you reconsider."

"And why would that be, Mr. Meadowes?" She asked politely through gritted teeth. "After I was just insulted by that entire confrence room for my sex, my age, my _choices _– why should I consider _anything _you have to say?"

"Because you have taken a firm hold of this company, even with your limited experience, and we have seen nothing but gain," Came his formal, snobbish reply. "Because you are the sole Heiress of the Estate and you have proven yourself capable, adaptable, and effective. Because –"

"Because with the good press I bring in as a survivor of a _massacre,"_ Jane cut him off, straining her jaw in an attempt to remain civil. "The Colemyer Estate stocks have never been higher. Is that _correct,_ Mr. Meadowes?"

He didn't answer.

"Mr. Meadowes, as I made clear in there," She nodded to the conference room she had just excused herself from. "Despite the multitude of backhanded compliments shot my way, I have no interest in becoming the CEO at this time. Nor, I expect, will I have interest in the years to come. Although the offer is generous, and the position enviable, I cannot and _will _not leave my work at the Federal Bureau of Investigations at this time. If you take issue with that, _Mr. Meadowes,_ then you may be well to recall that as _the_ majority shareholder – and as the Heiress you so _exalt _me as – I most _definitely_ have the power to remove you from the position you so covet. _Mr. Meadowes."_

He grit his jaw.

They stared each other down.

Luckily for both of them, her phone rang.

With one last glare cast to the conference room – silently vowing to get more estrogen in there for the next time she had to dress like she was a walking J. Crew catalogue – she answered it, about-facing sharply as her heels clicked loudly across the pristine flooring.

* * *

"Spinner, what's going on?" Jane asked as she entered the round table room, tugging off her professional blazer – a deep burgundy, at Penny's insistence. "It's my day off. Anyway, I got a temp reassignment –"

"We have Doyle," He cut her off, and she felt her stomach flip. "But Doyle's son, Declan, is missing. We need to find him."

"That's –" Great. Horrible. Terrible. Wonderful. Horrifying. "But why am _I _here?"

"Janey?" Garcia chimed in, rushing over for a hug. "Man, these funky hours and different assignments and all that noise are _horrible_ for my gossip sessions."

Jane returned the hug warmly, locking eyes with Reid through locks of Penny's blonde hair.

His expression was pinched, thin. Like he had a puzzle all laid out in front of him and was skipping the reconstruction phase to get straight to the picture.

And he didn't seem to like the picture.

"But why are you here?" Garcia finally pulled away, giving Jane one last loving pat on her cheek, scanning her head to toe. "Not that we don't want you here – or love to see you here or anything like that. I'm just confused – surprised. _Grateful._ Happy, though bewildered –"

Jane tuned her out as Morgan, JJ, and Rossi trickled in.

"You get anywhere with Doyle?" Reid asked as he locked eyes with Morgan.

"Doyle doesn't think that Gerace has the guts to take him on," Was the short answer.

"But that's definitely Gerace on the tape," Garcia pointed out, slipping back into work mode.

And then Jane was completely distracted again, because Hotch walked in.

Bearded, sweaty, a tad skinnier, definitely tanner, and dressed like he was about to chop down a tree.

_God,_ it was good to see him.

"Welcome back," Morgan was saying, and if they weren't at work Jane would've ducked over for a hug. Maybe a kiss on the cheek.

And on second thought, maybe not. Man, beards were _weird. _And Rin's looked especially scratchy.

"Thanks," He shot Jane a quick smile, then fell back into his professional mug. "Everybody take a seat."

Oh boy. She did _not _like this – didn't even know what 'this' was and she was already not looking forward to finding out. But she reluctantly complied.

"Seven months ago I made a decision that affected this team," Hotch started to explain, ignoring Morgan's questions and refusing to meet her eyes. Jane suddenly felt like she swallowed a boulder. "As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilize her."

His words echoed in her head.

Reverberated.

_Repeated._

She couldn't look away from Hotch's eyes. Hotch, who _wouldn't look at her._

"And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under covert exfiltration –"

And Hotch was still explaining. Giving reasons and excuses and a thousand other words words_ words_ – but she couldn't hear any of them through the pounding in her ears and the echoing in her skull.

_The doctors were able to stabilize her._

Her fingernails were digging trenches into the table but all she could see were the black of her nail polish –

Her black fingernail polish and the ring on her thumb that she had from Emily.

That she stole from Emily's apartment after she broke in, the day of her funeral.

The funeral that was a lie.

"... Jane?"

And then the room was silent, and Jane knew that all the eyes were on her and the woman in black standing next to her and she still couldn't look up.

"Jane?" Emily repeated, and her voice almost cracked – and all Jane wanted to do was scream and hug her and cry and yell and punch someone and _Aaron lied._

But she just stood. Faced Emily with the face she'd had to perfect in the last four months. The face of a businesswoman, who couldn't show her true feelings, or else they'd be held against her.

"Good to see you again, Emily," She smiled graciously, even as her heart _screamed_ in her chest. "And the rest of you as well. But unfortunately I have been reassigned since we last met, and I need to get back to my other duties. I have confidence you'll find Declan."

And she stood up, the fake smile slipping off her face. Swung her blazer off the back of her chair gracefully, with her head held high, and walked right out the door.

And she didn't let herself look back.


	39. 39

"Jane –"

"You know – just don't," She stopped him, holding up a hand. "Just don't. Go save that kid."

He grabbed her arm, but she wouldn't look at him. Hotch knew that he should go back – but the look on her face … she could barely _look_ at Emily. Declan was important – god knows he knew that – but Jane…

"Jane, I'm sorry," Hotch tried to catch her eye. Studied her face, watched as her lips twisted at his words – her temper flaring.

"Do you know what you learn –" She finally faced him, expression dangerously blank. " – when the world chews you up and spits you out again, Hotchner? You learn that there are two types of people: people who lie, and people who die."

She shoved at his chest, pushing him back, and Hotch felt his heart twist.

_"You _were supposed to be different. You were the fucking _unicorn_ of a person, who was _good._ Who didn't _lie. _Who was there even when my head was fucked up and I couldn't stand to _look _at you. Who was good in a fight and smart on his feet – a _survivor, _just like me," She bared her teeth at him, pissed and wounded. "And there was a moment. Just a moment – just a _second_ – when I thought that maybe I'd been wrong."

She laughed, harsh and sharp.

"Guess I was right after all."

"Jane, you were _gone,"_ Hotch pleaded, still reaching for her even as she shied away from his outstretched hand. "You were gone, and Doyle would stop at nothing to kill Emliy. I made a choice because I had to, and I have to believe that it's the right one because Doyle is in custody and Emily is _still alive._ When you came back –"

He cut himself off. Knew that no excuse was going to work.

"Go save that kid, Hotchner," She ordered him hollowly, turning away.

And he had no choice but to obey.

* * *

Emily felt like the world was spinning too fast under her.

Everything was like a dream come true, but a dream distorted by a funhouse mirror. Seeing her team again was invigorating and heavenly and like an espresso shot straight to the vein – but there were seven months and mountainous lies between them that she felt as if she could never overcome.

Morgan was furious, his trust betrayed, and she completely understood … and could do nothing about it. Reid was wounded and simmering – eventually he would boil over, and god help anyone in the fallout zone. At least Rossi was taking it in stride, as if she was just on leave, and of course Hotch and JJ already knew …

But Jane –

The last time she had seen Jane was one of those moments that she would've forgotten if it hadn't _been _the last. Jane had been juggling case files for Montana, a phone pressed to one cheek as she stuffed both go-bag and satchel for her trip.

Emily had poked her head in and said _'Have fun in Montana – try not to kill anybody' _and Jane had shot back _'Don't tempt me. Stay safe.'_

And then Jane had left for her flight and Emily had returned to her casework. And then everything fell apart and Jane remembered some piece of her past and disappeared, just like that.

Emily hadn't wanted to give up the search, but Hotch forced them to. Reasoned that Jane was an adult, and the only way they could justify a full scale search would be to turn it into a manhunt.

And so they had to give up.

JJ had told her that Jane was back. That she returned in time to bear the full brunt of the news of her death. And it was in that moment that Emily knew that Jane would be furious.

She just hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

When Jane left the round table room, there was nothing that Emily could do about it. She had to push it aside and focus, because Declan needed her and she had given up everything to protect that little boy – she couldn't lose him too.

* * *

It was well past midnight, and it was clear that Garcia had no intention of letting Emily out of her sight.

JJ watched, grinning, as Sergio curled up in Emily's lap and butted at her chin. Garcia, the technophile, had a camera out and was snapping shot after shot after shot – determined to commemorate the occasion.

There was a small smile on Emily's face, but her gaze was distant. Distracted. Soon, JJ learned why.

"She cut her hair," Emily finally said it, before backtracking awkwardly. "I mean, I know she cut her hair – we _found_ her hair – but I didn't realize …"

She trailed off, and JJ took pity on her.

"I know what you mean," She smiled at her sympathetically. "All those photos of Mari and all that time knowing Jane … never could I picture her with short hair. But I think it looks good on her."

"It does," Garcia nodded with finality, crowning herself the expert. "She just needs a shaved fade on her neck and it'd be perfect – but Janey said it would take too much to maintain so we're out of luck there."

Sergio meowed loudly, demanding pats. Emily absently complied.

"How much does she …" Emily trailed off helplessly, shrugging even as Sergio arched his back under her hands.

"Remember?" JJ finished, giving her a tight lipped smile. "As far as we can tell, she remembers large parts of her childhood and her time living in Chicago with Vine. The Massacre and however she got those scars … she won't talk about it, and she's still suppressing it for the most part. Pushing just sends her into another panic attack."

"Like when we tried to get her to remember during the search for Ryden," Emily nodded, sighing deeply. "She hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," Garcia immediately shot that down. "She doesn't! She missed you, really. She visited you all the time."

Emily didn't look like she believed her. JJ, thinking of how Reid wouldn't even _look_ at her, was empathetic.

"You know, after seven months of being gone …" Garcia suddenly sat up, a sly smile creeping across her lips. "You missed quite a bit of gossip. Quite a bit of very. Juicy. Gossip."

"Oh?" Emily looked intrigued. "Like what?"

* * *

Jane felt like jamming a chair under the knob of her office's door, but settled just for locking it.

When she heard a knock, she kept silent, electing to ignore it – until her phone buzzed.

Reid.

_'I'm really, really angry right now.'_

So she stood and unlocked the door, gesturing silently and dramatically to wave him in – locking the door behind him.

He stood there silently as she pulled out her cot, unfolding it. As she pulled open a drawer and tossed a blanket at him, pulling out a second for herself.

Spinner pushed the cot till it was flush against the wall, sitting with his too long legs kicked ungainly out in front of him. With a little effort she situated herself and the blankets till the two of them were pressed up against each other's sides, the heavy comforter over their shoulders and a fuzzy duvet over their legs.

Reid's feet stuck out. He tucked them in.

Jane didn't look at his face. Only her desk lamp was on, and the sky was black, so she wouldn't've been able to see him anyway – but she couldn't. Same way she couldn't stand to look in a mirror.

She didn't want to see an echo of her own pain on his face.

Spinner was the one to break the silence.

"I'm angry."

She didn't respond.

"At JJ … I'm angry at her."

Jane sighed, then struggled to free her arm. He watched her silently – and a little judgingly – until she managed to get it free. She snorted at how ridiculous she must've looked, and then shrugged it off.

She took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

He squeezed her fingers. _Hard._

She squeezed back.

"How long until there aren't any lies, anymore?" Reid asked, and she knew the question wasn't really for her. "How long until we can just catch the bad guys, save the good guys – and all come home in the end?"

They sat a little longer.

Her phone buzzed. She reluctantly dug it out.

_'Rin,'_ The caller ID flashed at her.

She didn't answer it.

"I guess it's about the same," Reid commented when she unceremoniously dropped the device onto the floor. "JJ lied to me, Hotch lied to you. And now neither of us can stand them."

Ain't that true.

"It would be easy," Jane finally spoke, her voice hoarse. "It would be easy if I was just angry."

"But you're sad too," Spinner nodded, shifting his arm until it was over her shoulder, his fingers curled around her bicep. "And relieved. And frustrated. And happy."

"And furious, and jealous," Jane continued, ducking her head into his shoulder. "Confused. Disgusted. Bitter. Scared. Helpless. And angry."

"Really angry," Reid echoed hollowly. "Really, _really _angry."

"Yeah," She sighed, then tugged at his arm with purpose. "C'mon."

And then they're shuffling, and they're laid out across the cot and Spinner jokingly exaggerates spitting her hair out of his mouth so she elbows him in the gut in revenge. The fuzzy blanket becomes a pillow with a bit of finangling, and Jane decides she's too lazy to turn off the light.

They face each other, with their feet tangled and the blankets weighing them down. It's peaceful.

The lamp casts sharp shadows across Reid's face.

"You know, if Hotch walks in right now he's going to have a good reason to shoot me," Reid drawls, holding back a snort at his own joke.

"Gross," Jane fake-gagged, giggling when Spinner jabbed at her ribs in retaliation. "Hey! I _meant _that you're practically my brother. Nasty."

Reid fell silent.

"... Is it because I remind you of Casey?"

Jane felt the smile slip off her lips. She cleared her throat, let her hair fall over her face.

"Do you … want to know more about him?"

He nodded.

"Case … he was the oldest," Jane cleared her throat. "He was dry, sarcastic. Like how I get when I'm really tired – sharp wit and biting humor."

She cleared her throat again.

"And he was like you, in a way," She continued, trying for a reassuring smile. "But not, in a lot of others. Sure he was a tall, skinny genius who chugged coffee like the end was nigh … but he was overprotective. Borderline _oppressive,_ if he thought you'd get yourself hurt. _You, _Spinner Dear, run off into dangerous situations pell mell – god knows if you have a plan or a gun or _anything – _and it's all peaches and cream because you'll just spin something your way. But Case? He'd sit back and overthink things to death. He felt safest when he was with his science experiments and his books and everyone he loved was strapped down in a padded room."

Her chest was tight.

"You're akin to Casey, but you're not him," Jane cleared her throat again, resisting the urge to detangle an arm to swipe at her face. "He was my brother. You are."

She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the emotions across his face; Reid tilted his head forward and pressed their foreheads together.

"I …" She wet her lips, eyes still shut tight. "I told Emily about Casey. And Ada and Bree and … It's not fair. Can't talk to my therapist but I can talk to a gravestone."

Reid just breathed in time with her.

"Emily was the one death that I felt okay about," She choked out, and her face was wet and she just hoped that Reid couldn't see. "She was the one person I could cry over. The one person – she was the only member of my family I could visit. I could _mourn_ – and now ... I don't even have that. Because she's back."

He pulled her close, into his chest, and wrapped his arms around her.

"Why did she have to come back?" She sobbed, dripping tears and snot all over his sweater vest. "Why did it have to be _her?"_

And she just cried. And maybe Reid did too, she didn't know.

He just held her tighter.

* * *

When she wakes up, Reid's stupid tie is about three seconds away from giving her brain damage.

With slow, deliberate motions she manages to get the fashionable ligature off her trachea. And then she can take in her situation more fully.

The sun was streaming in her window, and her desk lamp was still on. A glance at her watch read 7:23, and if her memory served her right it was Tuesday.

At some point in the night, she and Reid had switched places – with her pressed against the wall and Reid hanging precariously off the edge of the cot. She detangled her legs carefully, trying not to kick him with her boots, and lifted herself over Reid's lightly snoring form and towards the floor of her office.

She was halfway there when she locked eyes on Rin.

She nearly shat herself.

Like a fucking creeper, he was sat in one of her guest chairs, legs crossed and spine ramrod straight. At least he wasn't facing them directly – just staring at a wall with his hands folded and his expression distant.

She wanted to scream – but like fuck she was going to wake Reid. Not with his messed up sleep schedule.

So she finished her weird acrobatics and stood as gracefully as she could. Hotch kept staring at the wall pointedly, so she took a moment to swipe the drool off her face, straighten her shirt, and neaten her hair.

Deep breath.

And then she reached over and grabbed Hotch by the knot of his tie, ignoring his startled grunt as she dragged him out of her office.

* * *

Anderson _really_ just wanted to get to the coffee pot – but his supervisor was pregnant and irritated and _very_ insistent that if Agent Hotchner did not get the stack of files on the East RIdge case in his gun toting hands _right now right now right now_ then Anderson could just go ahead and kiss his job goodbye.

So he tried the Unit Chief's office. And the bullpen. And the elevators, and TA Garcia's cave, and even Agent Morgan's because he had to be _somewhere._

He was just building up the nerve to knock on Dr. Hart's door when it suddenly burst open, and out stormed the (very intimidating) doctor herself – dragging the very man Anderson had been looking for by the throat.

The scary sight was accompanied by a muttered and angry torrent of words from Dr. Hart and a glower from Agent Hotchner – and somehow the stoic man still managed to look like he could kill with a glare even as he was half-hunched over as the shorter woman dragged him through the hall.

And to top it all off, just before the door shut, Anderson spotted a disheveled and sleeping Dr. Reid. On a bed. In Dr. Hart's office.

_Dr. Hart's._

Dr. Hart – who was scary, smart, scarily smart, sexy, mysterious, and mysteriously sexy in a scary way. And Dr. Reid – who was all of that, except the scary part. And the mysterious part – really mostly just the smart part. And maybe kinda sexy, in a nerdy way.

Focus. What the fuck.

Dr. Hart looked like she just woke up, but Agent Hotchner hadn't. Dr. Reid _was _asleep. But … what –?

Anderson was bursting with questions. And concerns. Lots of concerns – none of which he would ever, _ever_ voice.

He looked down at the files in his hand, and then off to where Agent Hotchner had just been dragged off.

He resolved to just leave the files in the Unit Chief's office. Scary, pregnant supervisor or not – losing his _job _or not – you just don't fuck with Dr. Jane Hart.

You just _don't._

* * *

Jane didn't know exactly where she was dragging Hotch off to, but she knew that she was getting a_ lot_ of weird looks for doing it.

They pass through the hall, down the stairs, across the lobby, and out the front door. The whole time Hotch kept silent other than the occasional grunt of discomfort, and somehow that just pissed her off even more.

They reach the small courtyard, and Jane switches from a pull to a shove, sending Hotch stumbling ahead of her. Or, rather, he would've stumbled had he been _literally anyone else_ but since he was a fucking _ninja_ he just caught himself and straightened his tie.

The bastard.

"How the fuck did you get a key to my office?" She demanded, picking just one of the _many_ issues she had from the steaming, flaming pile of shit she had to deal with.

In response, he silently held up a ring of keys. Janitorial.

"Fuck you," She swore at him forcefully, tearing them from his grasp. "That's low, and you fucking know it."

"You wouldn't talk to me," He reasoned levelly. "What did you expect me to do?"

"Take the cold shoulder," She threw up her hands. "Give me half a second to calm down!"

"Is this you calm?" Hotch asked, still so fucking _even._

"No, you _moron,"_ She growled. "This is not me _calm._ This is me _pissed to all hell_ because _you_ don't know what boundaries are. Believe it or not, I don't exactly _want_ to blow up all over you. Hence my _cold shoulder."_

Hotch stayed silent.

"Do you want to do it like this?" Jane asked, _really asked._ "Because I can do it like this. I can yell and scream and say things I'll regret – that can be arranged. But I thought we were both a _little too vicious_ to let ourselves go unchecked."

"I don't want you to feel like you have to hide away what you're really feeling," He answers sharply, stung. "I don't want you to have to censor yourself, or stifle yourself. And my getting into your office was so we could _talk,_ like _adults_ – but you're –"

He cut himself off. She caught it.

"Oh, _nice," _She scoffed. "See, this is _exactly _what I meant. What you were about to _accuse_ there, Hotchner? You were about to say 'you're sleeping with Reid' – _that's_ what you were going to say. Fuck, Aaron, _possesive _much? We haven't even gone on a _date_ yet."

"And here I thought you considered us dating," Hotch shot back, and she wanted to punch him. "And then you and Reid –"

"We fell asleep, so what?" She bit at him, bristling.

Hotch gears up, nostrils flaring, but she cuts him off before he can _dare_ imply such bullshit.

"There is _nothing between me and Reid!"_ She shouted in his face. "God, Aaron, trust issues are _really _going both ways here, huh? No, I didn't fuck Reid. Don't even _want_ to fuck Reid, god! Should I get all pissy myself? Did you fuck Rossi?"

"What?" He stepped back, as if she'd slapped him._ "What?"_

"Yeah, so if you didn't fuck Rossi – who _you_ go running off to whenever someone stomps on your tail – then why do you think _I _fucked _Reid?"_ She threw up her hands, turning her back on him before she did something stupid. She caught herself, forced herself to calm down.

Pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Are we seriously having this conversation?" She asked the air. _"Seriously?"_

"That's not why you're angry, and this is _definitely_ not about Reid," Rin replied. His voice was weary. "You're angry about Emily."

"Damn right I am," She scrubbed at her face, glad she already shed her tears. "God, is this what it's gonna be like? One of us keeps something from the other, and it's just yelling and accusations and anger and frustration – is that what this is gonna be for us?"

"It doesn't have to be this way," He reaches out, turning her to face him. "Mari, we don't have to be like …"

"Like Haley?" She finished for him. "Or like Daniel?"

"You and Daniel were together," Hotch deadpanned, as if she'd just confirmed what he already dreaded. Then he shook himself, refocusing. "That's not the point."

"The point is that we are going to be messy," Jane quirked her lip dryly. "And that I'm not going to run off and sleep with a coworker over it, you _idiot. _Who do you think I _am?"_

Rin smiled tightly at that.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have implied that – that was out of line," He apologized, hands falling to grip hers. "And I shouldn't have broken into your office, either."

"Damn straight."

"In my defense," He tilted a shoulder. "I thought that you'd gone home. And then …"

"If you say one thing about Reid –" She warned, raising a finger warningly.

"I was only in there for fifteen minutes, tops," He cut over her. "And, well … you looked peaceful."

She stared at him. Then drove her fist into his shoulder. Vindictively.

He winced.

"Creep," She rolled her eyes. "Absolute creep. I should report you, you megaton-extreme – "

_"Emily," _He refocused her, cutting over her again. She met his eyes. "I had no choice."

"You don't think I know that?" She snapped, before centering herself. "I _know,_ Rin. Goddammnit – half the reason I'm so pissed is that I _can't_ be pissed. I can't even _look_ at Emily right now, because if I do I'm going to get mad at _her_ and she doesn't fucking deserve that –"

"You can get mad," A voice sounded from behind her – freezing her in place. Jane shut her eyes, cursing silently. "It's okay, Jane, really. You can get mad."

"Aaron, you fucking bastard," Jane shrugged free of his grip to face the crowd gathered behind her. "Shoulda fucking _told me –"_

"We needed to talk," Hotch grimaced apologetically, scanning the crowd. "And … I only just noticed them myself."

Huh.

Well shit.

Pretty much the entire bullpen, with a smattering of other unfamiliar faces, was scattered loosely around the courtyard and parking lot – some snoops even peeking out from various windows. For the most part, the only people who seemed to be within earshot were the team.

(For the most part. There was a bit of shouting on her part.)

Garcia and Morgan were gripping each other, and Jane couldn't tell if they wanted riot gear or popcorn more in that moment. JJ stood half behind Rossi, looking nervous and worried while the older profiler looked like he had just won a bet. Reid was noticeably absent – probably still conked out in her office.

And Emily was front and center, telling her that it was okay for her to be angry.

Goddamnit.

"Lunch break," Jane announced, slipping back into her 'I Am The Doctor, Obey Me' mask. "Lunch break."

"It's not even eight in the morning," JJ nervously pointed out, but Jane just shot her a glare.

"Lunch break!" She announced even louder, cutting over logic. "Prentiss, grab your wallet. You're paying."


	40. 40

They make it all the way to the restaurant – and Jane has yet to say a single word to her.

Emily couldn't muster the courage to break the silence herself, so after the short woman's proclamation she just checked she had her wallet and climbed into Hotch's car, nerves building as Jane used the keys she pilfered to pull out of Quantico.

They arrive at Okurimono, a high end sushi place, after a long, tense ride. No music, no radio – just Jane coming down from her fight with Hotch and Emily trying not to work herself into a panic.

(It wasn't working.)

Jane flashes a two at the hostess, and they are quickly led to a table in the middle of the empty floor. A waitress stops by, greats Jane by name, asks if she'll be wanting her usual – to which Jane nods a yes – and then turns to Emily.

"Oh –" Emily startled, glancing at her watch. She'd eaten breakfast less than two hours ago. "I'll have the same."

And then the waitress left, seemingly unbothered by the odd hours and the aura of tension surrounding them.

Emily learned, when she had first arrived at the BAU a handful of essential tidbits about her teammates. When Seaver arrived, and she had taken the young agent under her wing, she'd been sure to pass on the gems of wisdom that helped her through each day with the eclectic bunch.

If Morgan was wearing headphones, leave him alone – he's either exhausted or trying not to punch someone. Let Reid ramble when you can stand it – he'll be more likely to hold his tongue when you really need him to if you do. JJ has just as much or more authority as Hotch – she can make your life hell with little effort, so don't give her a reason to. Rossi doesn't like to admit that he needs help – you'll have to look for when he needs a nudge or another perspective, and if he actually _asks _then you drop everything for him.

But there were things that she didn't tell Seaver, because she couldn't have used them. But they were rules burned into her brain forever, all the same. Like how Gideon may seem callous, but he sees everything and cares about everyone even when you think he doesn't. Or how when a case involves kids – especially kids left orphaned of their fathers – Hotch's shields will go up, and only Jane could ever get them down.

But Gideon wasn't there. And neither was Jane.

But the key facet of _Jane's _nature that Emily had eventually realized, after years of working together, was that Jane was a master of words. She knew what to say, how to push people, how to get them to shut up and listen – how to get them to get up and go. You wouldn't expect it from her, considering how she almost never spoke, but when she did speak it was for a deliberate, thought out reason.

Furthermore, it was when Jane was careless with her words that she was most relaxed – or, rather, when she had her guard down. It was when she goofed off with Jack, or teased Hotch, or kicked back on the jet that her tongue loosened and she didn't treat every sentence like it was a live grenade that she needed to throw with perfect precision.

Conversely, when Jane went silent – when she didn't say a single word – it was because she was thinking out each and every syllable to get done _exactly _what she wanted done.

So Emily learned to read not what Jane was doing, but what she was _saying _– or not saying.

It made silence very, very unnerving.

* * *

Jane waits until their food arrives to finally speak.

"Did you know that I have not visited my father's grave?" She asked, eyes fixed on her food and focus on not letting her voice tremble. Not letting herself go off on Emily like she had Rin, because Emily didn't deserve that.

Jane knew that she could be vicious, with her words. Even if she didn't mean to – especially if.

Prentiss shook her head as Jane picked up her chopsticks. Emily followed suit, keeping silent.

"I haven't visited him," Jane continued, pouring herself some soy sauce. "Or my brothers. Or my sister. Certainly not my distant uncles and cousins and the relatives I never met. I haven't visited a single grave since I recovered my name. Except one."

She chomped on a fried shrimp head. It was delicious.

"Mine," Emily realized, face twisted with guilt. "You visited mine."

Jane swallowed, carefully picking up a slice of ginger to toss in her mouth.

"When I was sixteen I only ever cared about six people," Jane took a sip of water, eying her unagi. "Arthur Ryden, Adaline Ryden, Casey Ryden, Gabriel Ryden, Robert Leon, Rhys Olivier. Six. That's all I had room for in my heart. Six people were my whole world."

Emily reluctantly chewed at a California roll.

"And now they're all dead."

Jane flicked another slice of ginger in her mouth, studied the simplistic painting on the far wall.

"And I don't even have it in me to visit their graves. To cry for them. Nearly seventeen years, and I still haven't cried for my family," Jane leveled her gaze at Emily, saw the hurricane of guilt and anger and desperation behind her friend's eyes. "But Emily, I cried for you."

She tore her gaze away, returned to her sushi.

"What happened to me, when I forgot everything, was that I got wiped clean," Jane parsed out after she swallowed her bite, going for another slice of ginger. "But I was still the same person. I only had so much room in me for love, but there was no one to fill it. But I picked myself off the ground and started over. I had to. Learn to let people in again. First was Vine, then my old college girlfriend. Gideon, Hotch. The team. Jack. And you, Emily. I had room in my heart for you – I _made _room in my heart for you."

A tear slipped down Prentiss' cheek.

"When I remembered … when I came back … I barely knew who I was but I knew what I'd lost," Jane forced herself to keep her voice even. To not poke at the darkness looming in her memory, somewhere where she couldn't look. "But I didn't know how to mourn. I had been … interrupted. Twisted. Fifteen years not knowing, and then suddenly it flooded back."

She sipped at her water. Absently wished for something stronger.

"But there was no question, with you," Jane's voice quavered. "I loved you, and I lost you."

She placed down her chopsticks with a _clack,_ sliding Emily's ring off her thumb. Studying it, then placing it gently on the table between them.

Emily just stared at it, the chopsticks in her hand forgotten even as they were strangled in a death grip.

"So when I mourned you, I did it the right way," Jane tried to smile, but her cheeks wouldn't obey. "I wore your ring. I visited your grave. I talked to you – I _cried_ for you."

"I'm sorry," Emily spoke – her voice breathless and barely louder than a whisper. And so, very broken. But Jane had to finish.

"I did everything for you that I couldn't do for anyone else, because with you there were no questions," Jane watched the condensation drip down her water glass. "You were my family, I loved you, you died, and I missed you."

Absently, she realized that Emily's fried shrimp head and unagi was getting cold.

"You were the one thing I did right," Jane sighed, world weary and bone tired. "The one person I did right by. And I felt alright, because even if I couldn't look at a picture of my Dad, I could look at you. I could stand to eat your favorite ice cream, and read your favorite book, and talk about you – even if I couldn't do that with anyone else. Can't. But I did right by you. I gave _one _member of my family what they deserved."

And she locked eyes with Emily again, and she felt her mask crumble. Felt a helpless, teary smile fall across her lips.

"And then you came back."

* * *

" – and that's it, really," Morgan shrugged, an expression somewhere between a wince and a grimace plastered across his face. "That's what happened."

Reid figured that the expression on his face was something like what a person would pull when they swallowed half a lemon. Distorted, pinched, and as if they regretted all their life choices. He didn't have the willpower or control to wipe it off his lips.

"So …" For once words failed him. "Are people seriously …?"

"I hear that the latest gossip the rumor mill has spat out has Jane and you having sex in her office last night," Rossi chimed in, amusement written all over his body language. "And Hotch and I having our own dalliance – all while Jane and Hotch were dating. It's impressive – rumors always are _fascinating."_

_"Me _and –" Reid sputtered, eyes blown wide. "Why would we – I would never – we were just – !"

"We know, Pretty Boy," Morgan grinned at him, the sadist. "And Hotch knows, too. They're just in a tense spot right now, and neither of them were thinking straight. It'll blow over.

"Like the rumor that you're in a threesome with Garica and Reid?" Rossi asked innocently. "I still think that's making its rounds."

Reid will forever deny the veritable _squawk_ that came out of his mouth at that.

* * *

Emily took another bite of shrimp, but it tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

She couldn't think of anything to say – and definitely not the _right_ thing to say. And it was clear that Jane wasn't done yet.

She told Jane that she could be angry. It was true. Jane held things in every _day._ She held things in because of trauma and abuse and a thousand other reasons – none of which were good – and she could not make Jane feel like she couldn't say what was on her mind. What she felt.

Didn't stop it from hurting, though.

"I hate that the first thought I had, when you came back, was to curse you," Jane ducked her head, the curtain of her fringe cutting across her face. "Because why did it have to be _you?_ Why did _you_ get to come back? Why did _you _get to grow up, to change the world, to make a difference – to carve out your own place in the world – and Ada couldn't? Casey and Bree – couldn't."

And she looked up, with seventeen years of hurt and pain in her eyes. And Emily wanted to cry, because there were those unshed tears, just weighing her down. Tears that still wouldn't fall.

"Why did you get a second chance when my family – my _first _family, my _real_ family – didn't even get a first?" Jane cursed, her temper flaring – and Emily understood because anger was always easier than grief. "You came back. They _never _will. And I hate you for that."

And then Jane crumbled, her face in her hands as she shook her head and her body trembled.

"And then I hate myself," Jane propped her chin up on her fists, elbows on the table. A plastic smile across her lips, mocking cheer in her voice. "I hate myself. Because you came back, I _got you back,_ and all I can do is want more."

Her expression went blank. Jane sat back, shoved away her plate.

And she was done.

Emily still didn't know what to say.

But she had to say something.

"When I was in Paris," She finally formed words. "I thought about the team every day. I thought about how Rossi probably started writing another book, how Morgan was probably restoring another house. How Hotch was taking Jack to see the fireworks on the Fourth of July and how Garcia was probably spoiling Henry rotten while JJ watched on helplessly. And I thought about you, how you would be struggling. How if you came back – and I really, _really _hoped you would come back – that you would take my death especially hard."

Jane looked away, but Emily knew that she was listening.

"So I tried to cope, knowing that I might never get to meet who you were now, with memories of who you were," Emily smiled, only a little forced. "And do you know what I did?"

Jane still wouldn't look at her, but that was okay.

"I watched the episode of 60 Minutes that they did on what happened to your family."

A startled snort burst from the doctor.

"I did!" Emily grinned, pleased by the genuine reaction. "It was informative, and it was interesting – and a fair bit of it was utter bullshit. But I'm glad I did, because they showed this clip of you. It was you – you must've been twelve, thirteen? – and you were just _ranting._ I think your sister must've pulled out a camera when you were letting off steam and it was _hilarious."_

"What was I saying?" Jane asked, reluctantly intrigued. "I don't remember this."

"You were just _furious_ about a grade that you got in art class," Emily laughed, stabbing at her long forgotten sushi. "Apparently, your teacher wasn't too pleased that you'd changed mediums or something?"

"It wasn't just that!" Jane sat up straight, suddenly invigorated. "I remember – Ms. Cope was such a bitch! Just because I didn't use acrylic does _not_ mean that I deserved an F on that painting! The point was to paint an abstract representation of our family – just because I used _watercolor_ doesn't mean that I didn't do just that!"

"Well, was it specified in the rubric for the assignment, or something?" Emily asked, not caring about the answer as much as rejoicing that Jane wasn't slipping back into silence.

"No!" She exclaimed, before rolling her eyes. "Okay, maybe it was – but who gives a crap? That painting was fucking _gorgeous –_ and anyway, it's _art._ I lost my 4.0 because of that bitch."

"You were in Middle School," Emily raised her eyebrows. "Grades don't count then."

"Umm, yeah they do!" Jane raised her eyebrows right back. _"You _never met my dad, Em. Grades were important, right from go. Preschool all the way up to High School – ironic, really, considering that for all my effort those grades weren't what got me into college in the end."

"Ironic indeed," Emily smiled, studying the food in front of her. "By the way, what the hell am I even eating?"

* * *

Hotch honestly should've known that his and Jane's … argument would make its way back to Strauss.

Honestly, he was just thankful that Strauss didn't actually _witness_ said argument.

Small blessings.

"I don't need you to rehash the details of the fight for me, Aaron," Erin massaged her temples. "I've heard enough, and I have no interest in the details of your domestic squabbles or exactly how Dr. Reid is involved in all of this – I don't know, and I don't want to know. However, there is the matter of fraternization within the Bureau."

To borrow Jane's crude language, _of fucking course their luck turned this crap-shitty._

"Oh?" Hotch responded noncommittally.

"Don't play dumb, Aaron, you don't wear it well," Strauss deadpanned. "Luckily for you, before this nonsense, I had already … _anticipated_ your and Dr. Hart's whole affair –"

"Affair?" Hotch cut in, incredulous.

_"Affair,_ Aaron," The Section Chief stressed. "Don't interrupt when I'm doing you a favor."

That got him to shut up. He stopped pacing the length of her office.

"Thank you," Strauss exhaled at his shift. "As I was saying, I already approached the director about aspects of Dr. Hart's unique position – both as Marisole Ryden and as a novel employee – and it was decided that due to Jane's … value that along with her reinstatement and therapy any … _dalliances_ would be overlooked."

Hotch turned that over in his head.

"They're worried that she'll take her skills, money, reputation, and publicity value with her to run the Estate," Hotch cut to the core, right through the political bullshit. "So they don't want to give her any reason to consider the value of leaving the FBI."

"Keen as ever," Strauss drawled, huffing. "Honestly, for once your caution in regards to a relationship with Jane insofar is to your advantage. You two have been dancing around each other for veritable years – if your keeping company had been more superficial and short lived then this conversation would be very different."

It would be ungrateful to glare at Strauss, but _oh was it tempting._

"I hardly believe that everyone and their superiors knew about what is between Jane and I," He grit his jaw, keeping it off his face. "Until recently, there _wasn't _anything between Jane and I."

"You may be a profiler, Aaron," Strauss just shook her head, amusement all over her face. "And a damn good liar – but not even you can't convince me of that."

* * *

Jane studied the key chain in her hands.

A handmade clay something-or-other that she has been informed was a bear, made by Jack. The key to Aaron's SUV. A novelty bottle opener, a knife disguised as a key. House keys to his house. To her's.

She had to return them sometime.

She knocked on Hotch's door.

"Come in," He called, startling when Jane locked eyes with him.

She steeled herself, took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about this morning."

He looked down at his hands, twisting a pen between his fingers.

She recognized that pen. She gave it to him for his birthday, the first one they celebrated together – just them and Jack.

Well, at least he was still using it.

"I'm sorry, too," Hotch sighed, slumping with stress and exhaustion. "And I'm especially sorry that I implied anything about you being unfaithful. That was out of line – extremely out of line. I know that you're not like that – and I know that we're in limbo, anyway, and I'm being overbearing when we still haven't committed to a closed relationship."

Jane snorted, stepping into the office more fully. What a Hotchner-esq way of putting it.

"Well then, we better fix that – we wouldn't want any more of these misunderstandings."

Hotch's brain had to reboot, take a moment to catch up.

"Well, Rin, you _are _back from Pakistan," She pointed out dryly.

"Oh, right," Hotch blinked. "Right, well … right."

She waited, eyebrows raised and hip cocked.

_"Right,"_ He stood, flustered but hiding it well – she wouldn't have realized if she hadn't known him as well as (better than) she knew herself. "Jane, would you like to go out with me? Go on a _date _with me?"

"Yes, Rin," Jane grinned, lobbing the keys she stole right at his face – grinning wider when he had to snap up a hand to catch them. "I would love to go on a date with you."

And everything was back to the way it should be.


	41. 41

**A/N: This particular chapter used to be chapter 37 - it has since been removed, replaced, and lightly edited. I moved it to aid to the flow of the story better. Please don't hate me.**

* * *

Belatedly, Alex realized that she probably should've told Dr. Reid that she was coming.

Not only because it would be nice to see his cheerful, glowing grin after so long – they hadn't lectured together since 2010 – but also because Quantico was enormous and if she got turned around one more time she wasn't sure that her ego would be able to take it.

Agent Hotchner _had,_ in his politely formal yet thoughtful email, given her directions – but she'd been daft enough to have left the printoff in the glove box of her car. She would've gone back … but she wasn't sure she remembered where parking was.

They just _had_ to have remodeled since she'd last been there, didn't they?

A woman passes by her, catching her eye. Late twenties or early thirties, a warm skin tone and less than impressive height, and dressed in all black – other than a startlingly red leather cuff on her wrist, which was an interesting fashion choice. Her hair was chopped short, with a section of unruly curls falling over the right side of her face, obscuring it.

And – based on the surety of her stride even as she was flipping through a case file – she knew her way around.

"Pardon me," Alex spoke up, jogging a little to catch up with the woman as she looked up from her file. "Excuse me …"

The woman stopped, flipping the file shut and turning to face her head on; a light toss of her head threw her hair out of her face.

Startled, Alex blinked – forgetting all of her words.

"Yes?" The woman prompted her, and Alex realized that she was staring – and being _incredibly_ rude. Even if (other than the chunk of hair) the woman had made no attempt to cover the three distinct lines carved into her face, that didn't mean that Alex could be so brazen.

And _rude._ Man, she was better than that.

She cleared her throat, and tried to not let her eyes wander.

"My name is SSA Alex Blake," She got her feet under her, locking eyes with the woman – who, frankly, looked as if she couldn't care less who she was. "I'm here for an interview with Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief. I was wondering if –"

"This way," The scarred woman cut her off, turning down the hall.

Startled, Alex blinked again and rushed to catch up. She tried to memorize the route, eyeing signs and door plaques as she passed them. The woman didn't slow her pace, but she also didn't return to perrusing her file so .. that was something?

"Do you work here?" Blake tried to make conversation, thinking back on everyone that Spencer had said he'd worked with. (Morgan was the tough guy, Garcia the bubbly tech, JJ the mother of his godson, Hotchner the strict but fair boss …)

The woman just gave a short, sharp nod.

Profiler she may be, but as a linguist Alex was always better when _words_ were somehow involved. And this woman didn't seem inclined to give her any.

So she just settled back and watched.

Poking out of a pocket of her guide's satchel was a piece of paper – the flimsy kind that Ethan used to tear out of his coloring books. The edge of it was marked with crayola or colored pencil – something with color. The skill level implied a child, older than toddler but younger than double digits. Hers?

Perhaps this was JJ? And the drawing was done by her child? But how old was JJ's kid? Surely only a handful of years. Had she lost track of so much time?

(Time had blurred after Ethan died.)

There was no more time to worry about it, however, because with a final flight of stairs they arrived in the bullpen.

Spotting Reid, she peeled off from her guide – after shooting her a quick 'thank you', which was soundly ignored – to jab a surprise greeting into his side.

His yelp? _Hilarious._

"Blake?" He gathered himself, wide eyed – and as he talked, Alex noticed out of the corner of her vision the woman disappearing off a side hallway, not bothering to spare them a glance.

* * *

Hotch unlocked Jane's front door, feeling his shoulders ease after the door closed solidly behind him. Her house smelled like curry and rice – a recent favorite of Jack's.

"Little Bear, if you try to unnecessarily carry that one _one more time_ I'm going to have to tickle you until all your bad habits fall out of your _ears,"_ He could hear her jokingly scolding Jack, probably working on his homework in the living room, as he stooped to unlace his shoes.

By the time that he managed to ditch his briefcase and jacket to join them, Jack was giggling on the floor – futilely trying to beat off Jane's vicious assault.

_"Dad!"_ Jack yelped between his bouts of laughter. "Dad, get Jane!"

A slow, mischievous smile spread across his lips. Jane spotted it, though, and – being sensible – _immediately_ was on guard.

"Don't you dare," She stopped tickling Jack, eyes narrowed. "So help me Rin, if you try –"

And he lunged.

Now Jane was fast, and between Morgan's training and Ivy's experience she could hold her own, but Aaron was a skilled fighter and athlete in his own right – especially with the added advantage of longer limbs.

She didn't stand a chance.

"I've got you!" He informed her with glee as his fingers hit all of her ticklish spots, her weak attempts to hold him off useless in the face of his enthusiasm. "You have nowhere to run – Jack, quick, get her!"

Jack, the eager little critter, immediately jumped on Jane's stomach – partially blocking Aaron's access to Jane, but putting himself in the prime position to seek revenge _mercilessly._

"No!" Jane yelped, trying to push him off. "Traitor! Aaron, you _traitor!"_

"You attacked first!" He informed her unsympathetically.

"You try getting him not to carry the one when he's adding –" She tried to protest, but was cut off when all her air was forced from her when Jack cleverly changed tactics – instead collapsing bonelessly across her torso. _"Little Bear!"_

"I'm not little anymore!" Jack protested, coming down from his mischievous high. "I'm BIG!"

"Big Bear is Aaron," Jane rolled over, trapping Jack under her – grinning at his yelp. "You can't be Big Bear."

"Dad is _Papa _Bear," Jack continued to protest, his voice muffled. Hotch took the time to settle back against the couch. "I'm _Big_ Bear."

"You hear that, Papa Bear?" Jane grinned at him, a glint to her gaze. "He's a Big Bear. Must mean it's time for him to start doing the dishes _every night_ on his _own!"_

"NO!" Jack protested, wiggling his way out. "No, I'm Little Bear. Little!"

"Okay, Little Bear," Jane straightened up, looking faux serious. "Little it is."

And Hotch couldn't take it anymore –

He broke down into guffaws, tackling Jack and Jane – taking them down with him to the floor. Soon enough, with some encouraging pokes at their sides, they were laughing with him. Jack curled into his side, tiny body wracked with giggles; Jane landed with her head on his shoulder, side shaking with silent laughter.

And he closed his eyes, and _breathed,_ and didn't care to wipe the endless smile off his face.

* * *

Jack was getting in some final post-dinner play time before the sun went down as Rin was washing the dishes and she boxed up the leftover food.

"You left the office early today," Rin brings up as she is sealing the last tupperware.

"I always leave early, when I can," She answered, fighting the warped plastic – an uphill battle. "And you always leave early when you can."

"Yes, but you left early when we had a new agent," Rin pressed, voice deceptively mild. "Is this going to be like with Emily all over again?"

"I thought she was just interviewing?" She skirted the question. "Didn't realize you'd hired her."

"Jane …" He sighed, and she could hear his frown. "Mari, c'mon."

"Oh, you _really _want this to work," She turned to face him, a wry smile artificially pasted on her lips. "You only call me _Mari _when you _really _want me to change my mind. Tell me, Hotchner, is it because it's proof that my stubbornness is physiological, or that my mental state can't be trusted? Tell me, because my brain's not what it should be – I need you to make those distinctions for me."

"That's not fair," Aaron tried.

"No, what's not _fair,_ Aaron, is you using my birth name only when it suits you," She cocked an eyebrow at him.

He looked guilty – good.

"I'm sorry," He grimaced. "I didn't realize that I was doing that."

"I know, just … check yourself," She sent him a half-smile, cooling down as she leaned back against the counter. "And I know that you're worried that I'm going to shut her out. I won't, not forever. Just – give me time, Rin."

"If you take too long to give her even the slightest bit, you're just going to push her away completely," He argued, drying his hands with a dish towel just a tad too aggressively. "And … we need to decide what to tell her. How much are you _comfortable _telling her? How much are you _willing_ to tell her? We have to tell her something, Ivy – for your own safety – but …"

"I know," She nodded, scooping up the tupperware to stick into the fridge. "I know, Rin, I do."

They worked in silence for a moment longer.

"Hey, Rin …" Jane's mind was racing, and a slow smile spread across her face. "How about a test?"

She had a _fantastic_ idea.

* * *

Jane's masterful plan couldn't come to fruition, as circumstances would have it, until they'd already done two cases with one Dr. Alex Blake. Seattle and then the Strangler were rough cases to start with, and Blake handled them well, but that didn't mean that Jane was ready to bare her soul to the woman – despite Rin and Spinner's insistence.

She was expected to allow this woman to be privy to a secret that got three people killed, that _defined her existence? _

Like _hell _she was doing it without testing her first.

"Spinner," She turned to the genius, an anticipatory feeling building in her gut as she spoke lowly. "Would you grab Blake? Round Table room."

"Do we have a case?" He tilted his head at her, adorable, and she couldn't resist running her knuckles over his haphazard pile of hair. He glared at her mulishly.

"In a roundabout way," She non-answered, turning to grab Garcia and Morgan.

As she walked away, she felt Blake's eyes on her back.

* * *

"So I'm not sure I understand," Alex plucked up the courage to comment after the team – other than Hotch and Dr. Hart – had gathered in the round table room. "Why are we here, if we don't have a case?"

"Oh, I think I have an idea," Rossi mused knowingly, glancing out through the door's window. "And you'll find out soon enough."

Blake couldn't shake the feeling that – even if many of the others looked as bewildered as she felt – Rossi's 'you' referred more to _her_ than the rest of the team.

Barely a moment later, Hotch and Dr. Hart entered – both with professional countenances.

"Everyone take a seat," Hotch suggested, though it sounded more like an order. "Does anyone have any obligations for the next hour or so?"

They all shook their heads, watching him. Alex noted that while he asked them all to sit, he and Dr. Hart remained standing.

"I've gathered you all here as an … exercise," Hotch started before Dr. Hart cut in.

"Test," The typically silent woman corrected. Hotch nodded, conceding.

"Test," He repeated. "For Blake."

A rock settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Yes, a test," Hotch smiled at her wryly, sensing her apprehension. "Not my idea, but necessary."

Not Alex was _doubly_ confused. Who could make _Aaron Hotchner_ do _anything?_ The only person who came to mind was Strauss, and Erin knew better than to poke her when she was _so_ prepared to bite back.

"For this test, you'll be constructing a profile, trying to understand attitudes and actions," Hotchner began to explain.

"Who will I be profiling?" Blake asked, confused.

Dr. Hart stepped forward, settling with her arms crossed and chin jutted.

"Me."

* * *

Spencer didn't know quite what Jane and Hotch were planning, but he was pretty sure that it was Jane's idea. Which would explain why it would probably work, even though it would be trenched in Jane's borderline-sadistic preferred form of chaos.

"I'm profiling … you," Blake glanced between the rest of them. "Profiling you how?"

"You've no doubt noticed Jane's …" Hotch couldn't find the right word.

"Trust issues?" Morgan offered, and Reid winced. Alex had brought up Jane's attitude, more than once, but he didn't know what to say. It wasn't his place _to_ say.

"So you'll be profiling _why,"_ Hotch finished.

"And you're … _okay_ – with that?" Blake checked with Jane, who Spencer could see was amused by the whole situation. With a start, he also realized that Blake probably had no idea. After so long as a profiler, and as Jane's friend, reading her was second nature – for Alex? Not so much.

"I suggested it," Jane answered dryly. "You were going to reach your own conclusions – this just expedites it."

With a wince of sympathy, he turned to give Blake some support.

"Jane's … not good at explaining things," He tried to clarify. "She's never really had to, with us. It's strange, but just give it a go."

"So this test exists for two purposes," Blake made the connection. "To see how I profile, and to give me the chance to understand Dr. Hart better."

"Correct," Hotch's lips graced a smile. "Begin."

* * *

"I …" Blake steadied herself. If Dr. Hart was the one to suggest it, then … well, then she had to. Even if she didn't understand why.

Reid sent her an encouraging look.

"Your name is Jane," She starts, banking on familiar territory. "Jane is an English alternative to the name Jeanne, which is French and the feminine form of Jean – based on the name John from the bible, meaning God is gracious. However, it has become a common name over the years – especially since the publication of Bronte's Jane Eyre."

No response from Dr. Hart, other than a tinge of amusement in the crease of her eyes.

"In all likelihood, your ethnicity is mixed," Blake knew she was wading into dangerous territory. "The use of a primarily European given name coupled with a surname from Middle English and Northern German would be at odds with many traditional households. With a surname of Hart, I'd say that your father was at least partially cacuasian. My guess would be a melting pot of German, French, and the British Isles of that part of your lineage. Your mother was probably mixed as well, for you to retain such light eye color."

Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Morgan smirk.

"You're a doctor, and one with many fields of specialization," She continued, gaining momentum. "You're young, late twenties or early thirties, and have been with the BAU for a decade. That means that you either immediately entered the Academy after you finished your degrees or you were recruited at the same time. Since Rossi was retired at the time, and Hotch himself had only just taken over the unit … you were probably recruited or brought in by Agent Gideon. He has a known affection for young hopefuls with leagues of potential."

JJ jogged Reid's side – the young man was grinning. She was probably on the right track.

"You cover your skin," Blake studied the woman. "And you wear all black. You don't speak often, but when you do it's without many distinctive regionalisms, which indicates you probably lived just outside a major city, probably in the Midwest. My guess would be Wisconsin, Minnesota, or Michigan. Possibly Illinois. The black seems to be a personal choice, more than a symbol of mourning, because you always wear a distinctive flair of color – and they're so odd and cobbled together ... someone probably gives it to you? Garcia?"

She glanced over at the Analyst – based off her beaming smile, she got it right.

"Your … prudishness," Linguist that she was, Alex couldn't find a better word. "Could be due to upbringing, due to strict grandparents or severe teachers – perhaps in a private catholic school, or it could be due to your concept of professionalism. You may be Muslim, and practice conservative dress, even if you wear your hair openly, but not necessarily."

Dr. Hart stared her down steadily, didn't flinch – didn't blink. She was _incredibly_ good at hiding what she was thinking.

"You don't emote," Alex took a leap. "You don't talk, unless it's to someone you trust or someone you need to trust you. I don't fall under either of those categories, not yet, so you've devised this _test_ for me. It's an outlet, forcing me to make observations and comments that wouldn't be typically socially acceptable, but you see it as having a greater net value than letting things play out as they would. And you're doing this to decide if I can be someone you can trust, or if I need to be someone you _need_ to trust _you."_

No reaction.

"You could have Aspergers," Blake glanced at Reid. "Or bipolar disorder – perhaps early psychological trauma, brain injury, or chronic abuse. Emotional Dysregulation can be a symptom of any number of mental states or illnesses, and you display plenty of signs of ED."

_No reaction._ Interesting.

"You wouldn't be a member of this team, or even be recruited, if you had something debilitating," Blake narrowed her eyes in thought. "Or anything that impaired your ability to do your job. Therefore, you probably don't have Aspergers or are bipolar – being able to empathize effectively and remain motivated are essential parts of this job."

Still no reaction.

"Unless it's a learned response," It suddenly hit her – it was like with the Silencer. "When you were younger, you were trained to hold in your emotions and not let others' words get to you – you were probably ridiculed for speaking out of turn or even at all. Eventually you learned not to speak, not to emote, because it was safest for you in whatever environment you were in. That combined with the ED from such a toxic environment would lead to comfort in silence."

Jane cocked her head.

"You cover up," Blake was connecting the dots. "You cover up your arms and hands, but not the scars on your face. You cover up the evidence of the abuse you incurred before you became an agent, but not the scars you earned fighting for your life and for other people's lives."

"What's your conclusion, Dr. Blake?" Jane asks, voice steady and low. "What is your profile on how to work with someone like me?"

Alex blinked.

"I do my job, and you do yours," Blake answered after a moment. "And when you feel that you can trust me, or decide I need to trust you, you'll do the rest. My pushing would do nothing but alienate you."

And with that a wide, genuine smile transformed Jane's face – and for the first time Alex registered that she was beautiful.

"Correct," Hotch nodded approvingly, "Except for one major error early on. It skewed the rest of your reasoning."

Alex blinked, confused. Based on Jane's reaction, her conclusion had been correct … but part of her reasoning wasn't? What had she gotten wrong?

"Think, Blake," Spencer chimed in, head tilted like a puppy. "One mistake, early on. You're a linguist, you know this."

Linguist…

She linguistically analyzed … only Jane's name.

Jane … English and French, meaning God is gracious … Hart, Middle English and German, meaning stag …

Stag …

God is gracious, stag…

Jane Stag …

Jane Deer …

Jane –

"Jane Doe," Alex looked up at Jane. "You were a Jane Doe! Are you an amnesiac?"

"I was," Jane nodded, a trace of a smile touching her lips. "And when I took my … extended sabbatical, it was because I had recovered my memories and had to sort them all out. For the most part, other than the conclusions you reached about my family, you were on the right track."

"Will you tell me, at some point?" Alex asked warily, noticing how Jane was being non-committal about her past. "I don't mean to pry …"

"At some point," Jane tilted her head, extending a hand to shake. "But for now I never introduced myself. Dr. Hart."

Alex took her hand, and registered that everyone was watching them closely.

"But," Jane gave her hand a firm shake. "My friends call me Jane."


	42. 42

Jane was wondering where exactly her life went wrong.

Maybe it was waking up without her memories on the side of a dusty, gravel street wearing nothing but a white sundress caked in blood. Maybe it was going to medical school and moving in with Maeve, who became her whole world – right up until the perfect little princess said goodbye, washed her hands of their relationship wholesale, and never looked back. Maybe it was even when Vine finally convinced her to cut ties, to go her own way – far, _far_ away from Them.

But logic said it was probably a year ago in Boston, when she made that fucking phone call on the steps of the library, that _really_ screwed her over.

And now she was here.

With some overweight, smelly rapist pinning her to the ground with one meaty hand around her neck and a gun's nose jabbed into her abs.

"Let her go," Someone was saying, but Jane couldn't figure out who because the oxygen flow to her brain was being pretty solidly cut off by this jackass' club of a limb.

"Dr. Hart, you need to stay awake," Someone else – Agent Morgan. That was Agent Morgan – was pleading, and through her darkening vision she locked eyes with him. "Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart! _Jane!"_

There was more talking, more _yelling_ – but Jane was blacking out.

She heard the cracking retort of a gun being fired.

* * *

**39 Hours Earlier**

Embarrassingly enough, Derek almost sat on her.

He was distracted, talking to Carson about the case they just got – arguing, really, because Carson didn't have a goddamn clue when it came to obsessional crimes even though he seemed to be under the delusion that he was the leading goddamn expert when Morgan was _literally hired to be the expert on obsessional crimes –_

So when he's trying to keep his cool and not disrespect an agent who'd _been _an agent longer than Morgan's been growing facial hair, he's honestly a little distracted. A lot distracted.

Therefore when he experiences a jolt of confusion when the seat he's aiming for is not as far down as he thought it was – quickly followed by a firm _smack_ to his thigh – he has to stop himself from yelping in a very unmanly way.

He rockets back to standing, whirling around to see Dr. Hart leveling an unimpressed glare at him.

"Oh _shit –_ sorry, ma'm," He holds back more curses behind his teeth, thankful that Carson took the moment to make his way to the back of the jet instead of commenting. Derek wasn't sure he would be able to stop himself from snapping at the older agent if he'd made one of his biting, snide remarks.

"It's fine," Dr. Hart bit out, returning to her files.

Derek was about to say more, but saw Hotch and Gideon get on, deep in discussion, and decided to let it lie. He sat down quickly, across from Dr. Hart, and tried not to drown in his own embarrassment.

Then his brain caught up, and he was speaking before he could tell if that was a good idea.

"I didn't realize that you came into the field with us."

Because she hadn't. Phlaster had mentioned it, before he left, how if the town was small enough or the body messed up enough then Dr. Hart tagged along, but in his time with the Unit so far Dr. Hart had only given them consults over the phone or before they left – and by them, he meant Gideon or Hotchner.

Derek actually couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the woman speak.

Dr. Hart looked up at him, face devoid of any emotion, and Morgan absently realized that the volume of Hotch and Gideon's conversation had dropped. Before he could turn to check on them, Dr. Hart shifted in her seat.

"I do now."

And she returned to her files, saying nothing more.

* * *

Jane tried to give the briefing the attention it deserved. She honestly did, because when she saw the mangled bodies of those women, the marks of fingers permanently etched into their necks, she had to hold back a shudder at the echo of … something. Of the feeling of fingers on her neck – fingers that she couldn't remember but ...

Couldn't help but imagine.

Gideon was saying something, but she couldn't hear it. Nor how Carson responded or how Morgan contributed or anything like that – because her eyes were on these women, these beautiful women who got ripped from who they were by hands wrapped around –

Their neck. Not hers, _theirs._

"Why were we only called in after he's dropped 14 bodies?" Gideon turned to Hotch, a frown painted across his face. The sharpness of his tone yanked her back into the present.

"Many of these victims lead high risk lifestyles, and the bodies were out of the Flint's typical flow of traffic," Hotch answered dryly, equally unsatisfied with his response as Gideon was.

"There was DNA at the scene," Morgan commented, flipping through the file. "Semen, and on the last two victims defensive wounds. Any matches so far?"

"Nothing in the system, but they're underfunded and understaffed," Hotch grimaced. "Frankly, if they took this long to establish connections between the victims, I don't trust that there aren't more victims we haven't linked yet."

"I'll head over to the morgue," Jane offered, startling herself as much as the rest with her suggestion. "They're understaffed and under qualified? I can sort through their files and data – going back what, two years? – and find all the cases that fit. Women, 20 to 35, with strangulation coupled with rape. Once I finish I can start checking reported rapes or assaults with strangulation or ligatures."

Everyone stared at her. She wanted to melt into the floor.

"Jane, I think that was the most I've ever heard out of you in one go," Gideon commented lightly, a smile crossing his lips briefly. "I think that's a great idea – do you need any help?"

"No, I'll go through it faster on my own," Jane shook her head sharply, trying to ignore how Hotchner was studying her and the intrigued tilt to Morgan's head. "It'll be bad enough trying to ward off the ME's."

"Won't they be able to help?" Carson asked – like an _idiot._ She felt vindicated when Hotchner sent the agent an incredulous look similar to the one she was working hard not to let cross her face.

"Do _cops _like it when _you _tell them that they missed crucial details?" She asked rhetorically. "That they were _wrong?"_

Carson looked suitably abashed.

"Humans suck," She dropped bluntly, closing her file with a snap. "Especially when they're marking their territory."

Carson's abashed look quickly shifted to a glare at her jab. But collectively deciding not to press the issue further, they all turned back to the profile. Jane just tuned them out, shifting to face the window.

She had to resist the urge to let her hand creep up to her neck, to run over the scars left there.

* * *

Morgan balanced the cups of coffee in his hands, cursing the lack of those cardboard holder-things at the local shoppe – and, while he was at it, the early morning_ everything. _Eventually he makes it through the station and ends up at the door of the conference room that the Flint PD had lent them. He pauses, glancing between the door handle and the four cups in his hands, measuring.

He's about to ungracefully kick at the door when he hears a huff, and then the trickle of conversation comes through the thick wood. Against his better judgment – and at the sound of Dr. Hart's name – he listens in.

" – Jane hasn't checked in with us yet, and I don't think she made it back to the hotel last night," Hotch was saying, and it was hard to tell if he was worried, irritated, or resigned. "You said that you thought she'd open up if we brought her with us more."

"It's unlike you to be this impatient, Hotch," Gideon replied. "You know she's getting her feet under her. She volunteered to go to the morgue on the plane, that's a step in the right direction – and frankly one that came sooner than I expected. You know that."

"I know, but she –"

Hotch was cut off by the sound of a ringing phone, and Morgan took a couple quiet steps back down the hall and reapproached, his heels tapping loudly against the linoleum. He gave a quick kick at the door, and Hotch opened it for him, relieving him of a cup.

"Yeah," Gideon was saying into the phone. "Wait, hold on Jane – I'm going to put you on speakerphone."

With a bit of fumbling – at which Morgan carefully kept his amusement hidden – the older agent drops the phone in the middle of the table, accepting the proffered drink.

_" – I think that we've missed a key component of victimology," _The typically quiet doctor was saying, and Morgan forced himself to focus on the words (and not on trying to recall the last time – before this case – he'd even had a conversation with her. _"Jason, you said that you thought the unsub was devolving –"_

"Actually, we determined that the unsub is actually _unsubs,"_ Carson interrupted from the doorway behind them, smirking at the phone as if one-upping her was a win. "A dominant and a submissive."

Gideon leveled an even and inscrutable look at Carson, who began to squirm under his gaze, before turning back to the phone – Jane had gone completely silent.

"Jane, you still there?" Gideon asked. "Ignore Carson, what was that about victimology?"

After a stilted pause, Dr. Hart continued.

_"You said that the unsubs were devolving, right? On the plane,"_ She spoke, the sound of shuffling coming through her end of the line. _"Why did you say that?"_

"Because the Unsubs were targeting high risk African American women," Morgan provided, glancing over to a pensive Hotch. "But while they had a specific victim type, most likely surrogates, they've devolved away from their preference and are targeting victims outside the established type."

_"I don't think that's it,"_ Dr. Hart insisted._ "Hotchner, do you have photos of the victims? Any photo will do, just have one of each."_

"Yes, what do you need?" Hotch picked up a stack, exchanging glances with Gideon. "What do you see?"

_"Ignore the dates that they were found, the unsubs had them scattered and relatively hidden so they're not accurate,"_ She ordered. _"Lay out the photos somewhere in the order that they _died."

"What order was that?" Carson asked incredulously, doubtful. "We don't know that – we only know when they were found."

"Carson," Hotch scolded, leveling the man a look. "Enough. Jane, can you give us the order of deaths?"

_"Okay, first was Bethany Clyde,"_ Jane took a deep breath. _"Next was Lizzie Cole …"_

With a little help, soon they had all fourteen photos lined up in order. Morgan had to admit, he still couldn't quite tell what they were looking for.

"We've got them in order," Hotch informed the doctor. "What are you seeing?"

_"Honestly, just because your skin is the color of skim milk doesn't mean you have to be colorblind," _Jane grumbled, and Derek had to stop himself from barking out a surprised laugh. _"It's a gradient, Hotchner." _

And then Morgan saw it.

_"He starts with a Black woman with a very dark skin tone,"_ Jane huffed loudly as Morgan followed the photos with his eyes. _"But then he's progressively getting lighter. His first three victims had very dark coloring, African American, but each one is a little lighter. Eventually he stays less loyal, transitioning from only Black victims to some Arabic and mixed, then later including Hispanics. It's a _gradient."

"How did we miss this?" Carson asked, shifting to get a better view. "How did _you_ catch this?"

_"Because I started at the beginning and worked my way through," _Jane responded dryly. _"And – also: I think the first victim wasn't Bethany Clyde. Not really."_

"Did you find another rape?" Gideon asked, turning from where he was studying the evidence boards.

_"No, I didn't – because it _wasn't _a rape," _Jane shot back. _"26 year old Elizabeth Copeman was found dead in her home two and a half years ago, a month before Bethany Clyde's death. Copeman's death was ruled a sucicide – but they didn't even have an equivocal death investigation."_

"Why do you think Copeman was connected?" Gideon asked.

_"Because the cuts on the newest victims, Myers and Mateas," _Jane replied. Morgan took a movement to study the crime scene photos. _"The cuts on their wrists? The ME here classified them as defensive wounds, but they're too clean. Too surgical."_

"Your _point?"_ Carson snapped, sipping at his coffee.

_"Carson,"_ Hotch scolded. "Let Dr. Hart explain. Jane, what did you find?"

_"Copeman had nearly _identical _cuts on her wrists, and the bruising and damage to her neck was inconsistent with the noose they found her hoisted to her ceiling with," _Jane clipped, short. Gideon leveled another unreadable look at Carson. _"I think she was the first victim. And that one or both of the unsubs probably knew her personally."_

"Great work, Jane," Gideon complimented her, none of his ire at Carson present in his voice. "Where do you want to go from here?"

Carson rolled his eyes while Jane went silent, thinking.

_"I've done the most I can, here, at least until we find another body,"_ Jane replied, her fire petering out since she'd made her point._ "What do you want me to do?"_

"I want you to go back to the hotel and get some _sleep,"_ Hotch smiled at the phone, tilting an eyebrow at the phone with dry amusement. "If you went through all the victims one by one,_ and_ had time to identify Copeman, then I was right in thinking that you didn't go back to the hotel last night. Get some sleep, Jane. You've done well – good work."

_"Oh, okay,"_ Jane answered, clearly thrown off. Morgan felt his heart twinge. _"Oh, well. Okay. See you."_

And she hung up.

* * *

Jane stared at her phone in a kind of numb shock.

She … did well? Hotchner thought she did well?

Oh.

She shook herself out of her stupor, mechanically going through the motions of returning the files and reordering her satchel.

So … she did good?

Soon after she was bundled up, with her leather jacket zipped up to her neck and thick winter gloves replacing her typical fingerless attire. She considered calling a taxi, or one of the cars that the Detroit Field office had sent their way, but the early morning pedestrian traffic had yet to pick up and … she could use the air.

She hated feeling trapped. Every day she was out, free and untethered, was … liberating.

She didn't notice the eyes on her.

* * *

"So let's work this angle, with the gradient," Hotch mused aloud, studying the timeline of photos in front of them. "The unsubs are abducting women of high and low risk, at all times of the day; they're taking them from the southern end of Saginaw Street and bringing them to a secondary location where they are raped and strangled multiple times. Once they grow bored, or the victims no longer satisfy their needs, they dispose of the bodies throughout the city – well enough that they aren't found for weeks or even months, but not as thoroughly as they could've been."

"Most likely because they believe that none of the victims can be traced back to them," Gideon squinted at Elizabeth Copeman's photo. "There were no real forensic countermeasures, _except for _Elizabeth Copeman. She's linked to one of the unsubs, no doubt."

"We said that this was a dominant-submissive relationship – two males, the dominant older and more successful and good looking, the submissive the opposite, right?" Morgan waited until he got nods, before continuing. "But there's only one source of DNA on the bodies, discharge wise at least. So one of the two are impotent."

"Or perhaps just not actively participating," Carson pointed out, but was nodding to his point. "Okay, so the gradient that that doctor spotted. Why change victimology?"

"Well, it could be that the dominant is forcing the submissive to pick out the victims," Gideon suggested, and Hotch found himself agreeing. "We've seen it before."

"The dominant could've given a specific type to begin with, an order for a specific victim or skin tone," Morgan suggested (and, honestly, every time that man opened his mouth to say something that wasn't ribbing or flirtatious Hotch has to thank his past self for hiring him). "But as the submissive unsub started acting with more independence, he drifted towards his own preference."

"I think that's likely," Gideon nodded. "But that brings back the question of Elizabeth Copeman. Carson, go see if you can find Copeman's next of kin, or a close friend or relation. We need to understand what makes her different then all these other women."

With a frown of irritation, the man stood to comply.

"His attitude has gotten worse," Hotch commented to Gideon once he left, not even bothered by Morgan still being there – looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Yes, it has," Gideon sighed. "Yes it has."

* * *

Jane couldn't sleep.

Not that she was really trying, but that was beside the point. Jane had … had _been_ Jane for five years, now. Five years of mapping every aspect of herself, her body. She knew how fast her hair grew, how long her toenails got. She knew each and every scar and every line of her tattoo.

And she knew that when she was this wired, the only way she was getting to sleep was opioids or alcohol – neither of which were very becoming of an on-duty federal employee.

So she couldn't sleep.

And she thought 'fuck it' because why stay at the hotel when Hotchner and Jason went through so much effort to drag her out here in the first place? If she was just going to do non-case related work until the plane took off, she might as well do it where she could satiate her curiosity about the case.

So she got up, pulled on her boots, and called herself a cab.

She needed coffee.

* * *

Gideon was bothered by the case.

He was bothered by the case, and he _couldn't put his finger on why._

"Carson's almost done talking to Copeman's neighbor, Ethan Cray, who found her," Hotch stepped up to inform him, joining him in scrutiny of the board. "What's on your mind?"

"Something about Copeman …" Jason frowned, not sure how to elaborate.

He's cut off, anyway.

"Jane!" Hotch quietly exclaimed, pulling Jason from the photos and ripping him from his distracted train of thought. "I thought I told you to get some sleep."

"That wasn't gonna happen," Jane quietly snarked, exhaustion cracking some of her restraint. "I thought I could help."

"Help?" Carson's voice joined them, standing with another man in the hall. Jane tensed at his voice, standing rigid with her back to him – clearly trying not to react. "What can _you _do to help? You're not even an agent."

"Even _agents_ need sounding boards, _Agent_ _Carson," _Jane grit her teeth, turning slowly to face the older man. "And –"

Suddenly she cut herself off. Suddenly she went silent.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Carson huffed, clearly missing and dismissing the uncharacteristic, sudden reaction. "Mr. Cray, if you'll follow me out."

The neighbor, Cray, nodded and followed him out after a long moment – eyes lingering on Jane in a way that made Gideon want to reach for his gun.

But he couldn't worry about that, because he'd seen Jane in dozens of stressful and confrontational situations, but he'd never seen her seize up like this. Her gaze was straight ahead, fixed on empty space and turning her gaze vacant.

And she looked terrified. Frozen and quietly terrified.

"Jane," Gideon spoke clearly, getting into her line of sight and forcing her to look at him – through him. "Jane, are you alright?"

No response.

"Jane, do you know where you are?" He tried again. Hotch shifted silently, eying them critically, but Jason couldn't spare him a glance.

"Flint Police Department, Michigan," Jane answered automatically, robotically. Her voice was whisper-soft.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked next, studying her carefully.

"Agent Jason Gideon, of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit," She answered, again not seeming to even hear her own words. He could see where her heart was thrumming in her throat.

"Jane," Hotch spoke up, a hand hovering over her shoulder – not touching, but allowing his calm energy to seep into her. "Jane, you're safe. You're in a police station, with me and Jason. No one can hurt you here."

But she didn't seem to hear him, and Hotch shot Gideon a look – before slowly, deliberately, _carefully_ lowering his hand to Jane's shoulder.

She immediately flinched, _hard. _Her hand flexed so spasmodically that she clenched her fingers around the coffee cup in her grip, crushing the cheap cardboard and spilling hot coffee all over herself. The pain seemed to jolt her out of it, and she cursed and winced, dropping the cup and shaking out her hand – coffee dripping everywhere.

It was as if her moment of frozen fear had never happened.

"I'll get some paper towel," Hotch offered, striding away with purpose as Jane composed herself.

"– _because of_ motherfucking _course_ I drop the _goddamn coffee –"_

In a manner of speaking, seeing as she was getting herself back _to_ herself by cursing up a colorful storm, peeling the gloves from her soaked fingers.

But Gideon couldn't hear a single word she was saying, because of the ragged, crisp, clear scar running right through Jane's palm.

But then Hotch was back, pressing a bundle of napkins into her hands and shielding the scar from view.

* * *

Jane couldn't believe that she spilled coffee on herself.

She was tired – she _needed _that coffee. Fuck.

And now she was even more wired than she was before, even more tense. A voice in the back of her mind insisted _'Run. Run away –' _even though she couldn't put her finger on _why_. It was making her jumpy. She had to fight to keep her steps steady and her movements even as she made her way with her bosses to the conference room they'd set up in.

Morgan clearly clocked something in their body language when they walked in, but bless the man for ignoring it. Instead he kicked the leg of a chair, knocking it from the table for her – a offhanded, courteous gesture that settled her nerves, just a bit.

As they talked over the dynamic between the unsubs and what Morgan had learned from watching Ethan Cray's interview, Jane focused on wiping off the last of the coffee from her hands. Luckily the gloves that got soaked were her winter gloves, for outdoor weather, so she still had her fingerless gloves to slip on.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Gideon was watching her carefully. It unnerved her.

"Dr. Hart, when you were doing the autopsies of Jenna Cortez and Aria Shana –" Morgan caught her attention, and she turned from eyeing Gideon to face him. "– how precise were those cuts?"

"Very," Jane replied, reaching for her satchel to pull out the folder of photos she printed off, passing them around. "If you look at the edges, they're minutely jagged not because of the instrument or because they're defensive wounds but because the women were still alive when they were being cut."

"And how does that compare to the scars on Copeman?" Hotch asked, studying the photos over Morgan's shoulder.

"Copeman was most likely strangled first, manually if the autopsy report from then is reliable," Jane nodded to the older photo. "So the unsub who killed Copeman strangled her first, _then_ cut her wrists up like that."

"A signature that's present in the first murder, and a handful of the last, which implies that only one unsub killed Copeman, and then coudn't keep his impulses under control on these last kills," Hotch nodded, pulling out a photo of Copeman from a pile. "Copeman had an Arabic mother and a White father. Her skin tone is closer to Cortez's then Clyde's – so the unsub with the cutting signature is attracted more to a lighter skin tone, meaning that he's the one who's deviating and resulting in the gradient."

"The submissive partner, then," Gideon nodded, looking pensive as he tossed the folders on the table in front of him. "Carson, get anything from Cray?"

"Not hardly, the two of them barely knew each other," Carson snorted. "The only reason he was even there to find her dead body was to return a borrowed popcorn maker. Dead end."

"Our best bet is still going to be finding the submissive and turning him against the dominant," Hotch frowned.

"Well that isn't going to be easy," Jane shook her head, grimacing.

And then Carson turned to her, a silent assessment in his gaze … and Jane didn't like it one bit.

* * *

"Dr. Hart!"

Jane turned to face Carson with a start, shutting her eyes as she forced her heart to _slow down._ God, why was she so on edge? She was in a police station for god's sake – nothing was going to happen.

Hotchner and Gideon were in just the other room. She was fine.

"Yes, Agent Carson?" She tried to smile politely, too tired for another snippy dick-measuring contest.

"None of that, it's Matthew – Matt if you'd like," He smiled at her goodnaturedly. "Listen, I know that we've all been tense this case – how about we run out and get lunch for the team? I saw this Chinese joint while we were out, it looked good."

She dithered, but was hungry. Seeing her on the edge, he flashed her another blinding grin.

"C'mon, Dr. Hart," He cajoled. "I'll pay…"

Free food. Fuck. Her only weakness.

"Okay, sure," She tried to smile, studying the older man's grandfatherly smile. "But only because you won't get enough General Tsos if I don't."

His answering laugh was warm and rich.

Jane didn't trust it one bit.


	43. 43

Gideon was thinking about the mystery of Dr. Jane Hart.

Because, really, that's what she was. She was a mystery. And one that had been bothering him since that fateful day in Boston.

She was a bundle of contradictions, and the profiler in him itched to pry, to poke. To push and pull and pinch until she was laid bare in front of him – until he could see what made her tick, get some _answers_ out of her. Because he needed answers.

But he restrained himself.

Even as he watched.

Jane was defiant and loud and boisterous, but only when she was fighting for something – anything: a cup of coffee, a good night's sleep, justice for the murdered. But when she was content, or even just simply compliant, then she was quiet, _silent. _She drew no attention to herself, wore black as if her life depended on it, and never fought back if she didn't think she could win – as if she believed that she _couldn't_ win.

She was a master at pretending that nothing was wrong, that she was just another face in the background.

But then she would have reactions that were so bizarre and out of place he couldn't give reason for them. Little things that he couldn't explain. Like how she always seemed thrown off by Hotch, more so than anyone else. How she relaxed around Morgan but _could not_ around Carson. How she accepted him, but still kept one eye open as she slept.

And it was heartbreaking, because she was so young. So very young and so very intelligent – yet she willingly shared none of her thoughts, her insight – at least not until it was expected of her. Until she _had _to. She volunteered nothing, unless it was for a patient. She asked for nothing, unless it was for someone else.

And she never spoke about herself, or where she came from. She didn't talk about the past, as if it didn't exist.

Jane Hart truly thought nothing of herself. She didn't _care_ about herself, and all too often Jason could see that she was just going through the motions.

But there were moments of brightness, too. Quips exchanged when she was comfortable enough to let her guard down, just a bit. How she enjoyed throwing people off, sweeping their feet out from under them. Her love for spicy Mediteranian fare. Jason remembered that she lit up at a rainbow once – a real, _true_ smile beaming across her face. A smile that Jason found familiar. Achingly so.

Lots of things about the doctor were achingly familiar. Like that scar cutting through her palm.

And the creeping of an impossible, horrible thought. The itch running down his spine at the memory of a missed phone call, a puddle of blood. A case taken off his hands, despite his protests.

A grinning little girl peeking out from behind her father's protective form. A colorful scarf twined carefully around a oh-so-tiny palm.

And the questions only grew.

* * *

Morgan couldn't find the file on Copeman.

Who had it last? It got passed around … Dr. Hart probably had it. That was a safe bet.

… But where _was_ Dr. Hart?

Realizing that he hadn't seen the short doctor for – when was the last time he'd seen her?

As he scanned the room looking for her, his eyes landed on the board. On the gradient of women, faces of dead women looking out at him.

Elizabeth Copeman and Dr. Hart could've been cousins.

_Shit._

"Hotch!" He called over the Unit Chief, who was talking to the precinct's Captain. "Hotch, have you seen Dr. Hart?"

"No …?" The senior profiler scanned their surroundings. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"I don't know the last time I saw her – maybe when we last met in the conference room?" Morgan tried to keep his – possibly irrational – panic out of his voice. "It's probably nothing, but considering …"

He trailed off, but Hotch seemed to understand. With a frown plastered across his face, Hotch excused himself and led the way to where Gideon was.

"Gideon, have you seen Jane?" Hotch asked, jarring the older man out of his thoughts.

"Jane?" Gideon echoed, tilting his head. "No, not since she said she was going to clean up."

"What about Carson?" Morgan asked, looking around for the agent. "Is he here either?"

"I haven't seen him since I shot down his dangerous idea," Gideon answered, brow furrowed – Morgan latched onto that, not a part of that exchange. Dangerous idea? "Hotch?"

"I haven't seen either of them, for at least an hour," Hotch frowned. "Maybe they went to get lunch?"

_"Carson_ and _Jane?"_ Morgan pointed out incredulously. "He's been making digs at her this whole case, and she's been fighting back. Why would he take her with?"

Hotch frowned. It set off warning bells in Morgan's head.

"Gideon, what dangerous idea did you shoot down?" Hotch asked, shooting him a cryptic look. "You didn't bring anything like that up with me."

"Carson wanted to set up bait for the unsubs in the hunting zone," Gideon answered, crossing his arms. "I said no way in hell. You would've said the same."

"Bait?" Morgan echoed, a cottony feeling in his mouth. "You don't think …?"

At the hard looks on Hotch and Gideon's faces, Derek's stomach dropped.

And he immediately reached for his phone.

* * *

Jane's phone went off.

That within itself was unusual. No one called her, unless it was for work. She didn't recognize the number.

And if it wasn't Hotchner or Gideon … who then?

Carson was in the restaurant, and she could see him through the window, chatting with the man behind the counter. She honestly wasn't even sure if he had even _ordered_ yet, he was just gabbing it up.

For half a fucking hour.

But she didn't recognize the number, and if it wasn't Carson saying they could finally head back, or Hotchner or Gideon, then it wasn't work related. Probably just a sales call.

She turned her sound off.

It probably wasn't anything important, anyway.

* * *

Hotch tried not to grind his teeth as Morgan redialed Jane's number.

She wasn't picking up.

Gideon had similarly poor luck with Carson – probably because the older man constantly forgot to charge his phone, the luddite.

Hotch wasn't surprised that Carson would want to set up a trap for the unsubs, because the man could be callous with his single-minded intensity. He wasn't even surprised that he finally snapped and lashed out at Jane – he'd been irritable and borderline chauvinistic from the moment they brought her on. But that he would … he could …

Jane was a young, petite, dark skinned woman. She was these unsubs' perfect victim, and Carson –

Nothing was sure. Except that these unsubs had power complexes over women, were following the investigation and most likely watching them, and most likely saw Jane as the perfect opportunity to flaunt their masculinity and dominance.

"Okay, if we can't get them on the phone then we need to go to them," Hotch growled, ignoring the startled look of surprise from Morgan at his tone. "Gideon, where did Carson suggest the trap be set?"

"Interviews from the family showed overlap in various restaurants along Saginaw," Gideon answered, gesturing to a map. "That's within walking distance."

"And you bet they'll walk," Hotch clenched his jaw. "Because what's the point of bait if no one sees it? Morgan, get the car."

* * *

Laden down with bags of Chinese, she couldn't answer her buzzing phone.

"Is that you?" Carson asked, shuffling his own bags. "Do you need me to take your bags?"

"No, it's fine," She frowned, still not totally at ease with the man's sudden shift in attitude. He began to peel off from the main path. "Wait, where are you going?

"Just down this next street," He nodded. "There's a drug store, and I'm out of cigarettes. Wait here, I'll be right back."

He's gone before she can argue.

And her phone _would not stop ringing._

Was it still that same telemarketer? It had to be: if it was case related, they would've called Carson – not her.

But goddammit that buzzing was _annoying._

The street wasn't too busy with commuters, but she still has to work a bit against the flow of the crowd to get to a bench. She set down the food, digging around her satchel for the irritating phone.

Jane recovers it, and checks the call log – 36 missed calls?

What in the –

An unknown number a bunch of times, and Hotchner and Gideon a couple times.

Uh oh.

She calls Hotchner back.

"What, do you want more dim sum?" She quipped, searching the bags to see what they got.

_"What – no, Jane, this isn't about food," _Hotchner's urgency throws her off. _"Jane, where are you right now?"_

"Umm …" She looked up. "Outside some pizza joint, on Saginaw. Waiting on a bench."

_"Is Carson with you?"_ Hotchner pressed.

"He's buying himself some cancer sticks," She straightened up, realizing that his questions were more than just a passing curiosity. "Hotchner, what's the problem?"

_"Are you armed?"_

"I'm a _doctor,"_ She stressed, incredulous. "That's what you pay me for, in case you've forgotten. Why would I be armed?"

There's a shuffling sound on the other end, and Jane would _really_ like an explanation right about now. What was the problem? Was Carson okay?

_"Jane,"_ Gideon's voice came through. _"Jane, I need you to find a place to bunker down with your back to a wall. A restaurant, a store. Somewhere with witnesses, with other people around."_

She sprung to her feet automatically, eyes scanning for a cop or someone in uniform. No one, so she turns to go into the store –

But then her phone is wrenched out of her grip and a meaty hand is wrapped around her throat, slamming her into the ground.

* * *

Finding Jane turned out to be as easy as following the screams.

People were scattering as an overweight, balding black man with ragged teeth had Jane pinned to the ground, a gun digging into her side. Carson was trying to mitigate the situation, his gun out – trying to talk the man down.

It wasn't working.

Gideon was going to _kill _Carson.

"Let her go," He ordered, his hands and aim steady as they approached.

"Dr. Hart, you need to stay awake," Morgan ordered, his agitation growing as Hart didn't respond – _couldn't_ respond with 300 pounds of rapist on her windpipe. "Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart! _Jane!"_

"Let her go," Hotch ordered, circling around. "She's a federal agent, and you know that. Why else would you walk into a situation that was so obviously a trap?"

"Trap?" The Unsub laughed – the dominant or the submissive? "I'm the one who has the upper hand."

And then Gideon saw it. Parts of it clicked.

"If you kill her, then you're never going to be able to punish your so-called partner for leaving you."

He'd caught his attention.

"Because that's what he did, right? He left?" Gideon lowered his aim, got in front of the man. "After everything the two of you did – together. He still left. Bet he barely even said goodbye, he just said 'you're on your own' and left."

"He sent a _text!"_ The man raged, fingers flexing around Jane's neck – Jane, whose struggles were weakening by the second. "This was all his idea! He said he'd get the girls, that he'd get the right girls. And then we'd have some fun, and then we'd get rid of them in the end – was all that _nothing_ to him?"

Hotch and Morgan circled round.

"And I caught on," The man snarled triumphantly. "I knew he was giving me the wrong ones. Because he wasn't getting the pretty ones, he was getting ones like _her –"_ He shook Jane, slamming her again against the pavement. " – but I didn't care, because we were in this _together!_ And when I saw her outside the station, I knew I was gonna get her – for him! And then he _left."_

And with a huff of rage, the unsub turned to let loose a shot towards Carson – he missed.

Hotch and Morgan took the opening, tackling him – their combined strength pulling him off of Jane. Gideon rushed forward for Jane, trusting the two of them to take care of the unsub. Carson rushed to help Jane, too, but Gideon shoved him away – he'd done enough.

She lurched up, hacking and coughing – hands scrambling at the fabric at her throat, desperate for air. Overcome with relief, Gideon couldn't help himself from pulling her into a relieved embrace.

Jane was so weary, she didn't even push away.

* * *

She felt numb.

Hotch approached her, considerate enough to travel with loud steps and well within her line of sight. Jane barely even tenses when he hands her a bag of ice, she's … just so numb.

She presses it against her neck.

"Morgan and Carson have the man who attacked you in custody," He tells her, as if it's some kind of reassurance. As if it's a _gift._

And in that moment, she hates him – Hotchner. Hotchner, who was in charge. Hotchner, who said that he _cared _– when he clearly didn't. Because yeah, the rapist was in custody and he gave her some ice – that's all that mattered, wasn't it?

_(– fingers around her _neck _–)_

Like _fuck._

Her neck hurt. She was just … so tired.

"Jane is there anyone you want us to call?" Gideon asked from beside her, oh so gently.

She hated it. She hated him.

"No."

"No family?" Gideon asked, but like he already knew the answer. Because she was dispensable, was that it? No one wanted her, no one cared.

Not even people she was supposed to _trust._

"No."

"Jane, I already called your emergency contact," Hotchner told her, gentle and blunt and _she hated him so much._

But then his words clicked and she was reeling back, angry for another reason.

"You _called her?"_ She hissed, pain tearing at her cords even as she suppressed the irrational urge to fix her tangled hair. "Why would you call her?"

"Because that's protocol, Jane," Hotchner cut into her hysteria – and Gideon was watching them like at any time one of them was going to shit bricks of gold and shout the meaning of life at the top of their lungs. "You should know, you filled out those forms yourself."

"Because when I signed up I didn't know that I was going to be used as a honeypot!" She shouted. Hotchner's jaw snapped shut.

He seemed to center himself. _She hated him._

"I did not authorize that," Hotchner shook his head, irritation in every line of his body. "Jane, I swear that I would never have you, or anyone else, as bait – especially when you didn't know."

"Yeah, like I can believe that," She bit back, cursing the coarseness of her voice. Her _weaknesses. _"You're the man in charge, Hotchner. Nothing happens without your say so."

"Well this did," Hotchner shot back, firm. "And I can promise you that you will never be in a situation like that again. I swear, Jane, I'll make this right."

Morgan and Carson took that moment to return.

_She hated them all._

Fuck, why did she ever leave Boston?

"What the hell were you thinking?" Hotchner turned to bare down on Carson with a level of fury that threw Jane off.

"I was thinking that we had no leads, and every way we turned were just dead ends," Carson shot back – and Jane had to get up and back up, because Carson had a foot and sixty pounds on her and Hotchner and he looked like they were about to throw hands and she'd nearly died _once_ today and didn't really need a repeat. "I was thinking that fifteen women were dead and we were ignoring the best course of action we had."

"The _'best course of action' –? _You set up a fellow teammate as _bait!"_ Hotchner close to _shouted._ "Without telling her! Without telling her she was bait, telling her about the danger – without giving her a wire, without getting backup. She wasn't even _armed."_

"Why the hell wasn't she armed?" Carson asked, took aback. The jackass.

"Because she's not trained in the field!" Gideon scolded, looming over Carson. "Because she is a _doctor._ She's a _doctor, _and you set her up as bait for people who have _abducted and killed fourteen women."_

"I – well –" Carson floundered, but then regained his steam. "You should've never brought her into the field! I told you, Hotch. I told you that she was just going to be a liability. That she was going to spell trouble – and you didn't even _train_ her?"

"She's not a field agent!" Morgan growled, the three men forming a pissed triangle around Carson, coming at him from all angles. "She didn't need additional training – and _you knew that._ Hell, even _I_ knew that!"

"You, knowingly and willingly, put a coworker in danger," Hotchner growled lowly. "You have been combative and unnecessarily aggressive this entire case. When we get back to Quantico, you're packing up your bag – actually, you know what? Get out. Your gun and badge, now – get the hell out of my sight."

* * *

They left her alone, let her decompress in the hallway. Let her breathe.

She really needed to breathe.

Hotchner … Hotchner had told the truth. Carson really did set her up, didn't tell him.

And – they defended her. Hotchner _fired_ Carson – Carson, who'd been at the Bureau longer than _Hotchner_ had – because he hurt her.

It …

She didn't even know.

There was just a cold sort of emptiness where her hate was festering before. It left her feeling off balance.

The hallway was quiet. The officers, having seen the shouting match, were leaving her be – which she was grateful for, yes, but … there was too much silence.

Her ice pack had long melted by the time footsteps approached her.

(Three years and she still knew those steps.)

Maeve sat down next to her, on the dirty floor of the police station's hall. She was messily thrown together, with a wrinkled cardigan and creased slacks – her thick brown hair was tangled as if she'd been in the middle of a long research binge when Hotchner had called her.

She probably had been, knowing Maeve.

They sit in silence, and for a moment it's like time was nothing. Like it was before Jane had graduated early, and they'd spend hours in the library studying and snorting over bastardized latin names.

Forever ago and yesterday.

"You live in Maryland," Jane finally croaked. "The hell are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"I caught a plane," Maeve replied, flat. Exhausted. "And don't call me Sherlock."

"Fine, _Donovan," _Jane corrected herself, the illusion of normalcy shattered and weariness back full force. "But just because you're my emergency contact didn't mean you had to hop on a plane – why are you really here?"

"I'm still your Power of Attorney," Maeve sighed, deeply and wearily. "And not just Healthcare – I'd bet I'm your Financial Power too."

Jane didn't respond. They both knew the answer.

"Jane –"

"Fuck off, Donovan," She snapped, too wrung out for one of her speeches.

Too … everything. And they both knew it.

"You need to change your paperwork," Maeve leveled an even look at her, pushing off the dirty floor and dusting herself off. "You want me to fuck off so badly? Fine. Find someone else to worry about you – I've done my share."

_"Who?"_ Jane looked up at her – saw the pain that was there, no matter how much Maeve tried to hide it. Because Maeve may have ended things, but they both still cared too much – had given too much to each other – to be heartless.

No matter how much they both tried to be.

"Not me," Maeve shot back, looking away. "Someone else – just –"

"There _is_ no one else," Jane laughed darkly. "I don't trust anyone – hell, I don't even trust _you. _Not anymore."

_"Someone,"_ Maeve ordered, sharp. _"Someone,_ Doe, because this is the last time. It ended for a reason. Let it go, let me go, and learn to trust someone. _Anyone."_

_"Who?"_ Jane repeated – because she didn't know how to do these things. Maeve was the one who _taught _her these things, dammit.

"Take a leap of faith, Watson," Meave shook her head, turning to leave. "And lose my number."

Jane slumped further against the wall.

She just watched her go.

Again.


	44. 44

Morgan's smile was kind as he held the car door open for her. It was kind as he drove, and kind as they stopped outside a small, lived in house.

She didn't know what to do with a smile like that.

He led her inside, holding the front door open for her there, too.

The house was warm, with pictures and knick knacks and furniture covered in throw pillows and blankets. The air smelled of … of home. What homes are supposed to smell like.

She felt out of place.

He and an older woman exchanged hugs, kisses on the cheek. They were talking to each other in low, loving tones, too – but she didn't hear the words. She just studied the picture frames on the walls, tried to blend into the background. To pretend that she wasn't so out of place.

"You must be Dr. Hart," A woman's voice cut in, and Jane turned to face another tall, beautiful woman who was also smiling at her, curly hair bouncing as she tilted her head in greeting.

"They call me Jane," She croaks out, forgetting the sensitivity of her larynx – how a week wasn't long enough for the pain to go away. The woman winced in sympathy and wrapped an arm around her, leading a stiff Jane to the couch in the living room.

"I'm Sarah, Derek's older sister," She smiled. "It's nice to meet one of my brother's colleagues."

Jane had no idea what she was supposed to say to that.

Why was she at Derek's _house?_

She sat down on the couch. It was well worn, but clearly loved.

Had she ever owned a couch like this?

"Jane, this is my mother, Fran," Derek introduced the older woman, who was still tucked under his arm. "Ma, this is the kickass doctor that I was telling you about."

"Hello," Jane tried to match the woman's smile. "Dr. Hart. They call me Jane."

"Hello, Dr. Hart – _Jane,"_ Ms. Morgan ducked out from her son's arm to extend a hand. "It's lovely to meet you."

Jane took it robotically.

"Jane, you're going to stay here," Derek told her, and she snapped her head around – a protest on her lips. "There'll be police out front to keep an eye out, and I'll stop by often to check on you."

"Morgan, I can't –" She stood, of half a mind to bolt for the door.

"Jane," He cut into her worry, seeing right through her. "Do you think that I would put you in the same house as my family if I thought it would put them in danger?"

She snapped her jaw shut. Sat down.

"You're more than welcome here," Ms. Morgan assured her, reaching a hand to pat Jane's knee. "Derek told us what happened, and how you're taking the rest of the case off. This is just so you have someplace to stay, and so that your team will know you're safe."

She swallowed, the movement painful in her throat.

Maeve's voice echoed in her brain.

_'Someone, Doe, because this is the last time. It ended for a reason. Let it go, let me go, and learn to trust someone. Anyone.'_

"Okay," She nodded, fingers tightening around her satchel's strap. "Okay."

So she sat through the polite small talk, the catching up and the ribbing inside jokes. She sat quietly, trying not to draw attention to herself – until Morgan stood to leave, drawing out his goodbye.

She cornered him before he left.

"You can't leave me here," She hissed at him, still bewildered and confused. "You can't – I can't put your _family_ in danger. If Hotchner is making you – "

"Hotch isn't making me do anything," Morgan corrected calmly, shrugging on his jacket. "Gideon, Hotch, and I all talked it over. We don't think that the partner even knows about you, and we have the man who attacked you – Bryce – in custody. You don't have to stay here, but you should be _safe _here – Jane, it's been a week and there have been no more attempts."

"That's not good enough," She shook her head. "I can't –"

"Jane, you're off the case," Morgan spoke, firm. "We need you protected – because we _could_ be wrong – and we need you somewhere out of the way where someone can keep an eye out on any delayed effects of your attack. Now, I told Sarah and my mom everything they need to look out for, and I know you don't like it when your mother-henning gets turned around on you – but you need to trust that we're looking out for you here."

Trust.

_'Someone. Anyone.'_

She clenched her jaw. Averted her gaze.

"You're not going to be imposing on my family," Morgan continued, tone far more gentle. "Honestly, my mom's ecstatic to have someone to cook for, and Sarah is probably going to be in and out anyway – she has her own house, her own job. You're not a burden, Jane."

She swallowed thickly, nodded.

And he walked out the door.

* * *

As Gideon left the interrogation room, he could tell that Hotch had noticed the same obvious discrepancy that he had. And he could tell that he was just as unsatisfied with the uncomfortable reality they now had to face.

"There's no way that Darryl Bryce is the dominant unsub," He voiced their dreaded discovery.

"Not only is he not displaying forms of alpha male behavior, but he's not charismatic," Hotch agreed, pinching his brow. "He's not attractive, powerful, manipulative – he's an electrician who works doing odd jobs across the city. He doesn't have the means to manipulate a submissive partner."

They started down the hall.

"So we were wrong about part of the dynamic," Hotch thought aloud, continuing his train of thought. "We're not dealing with a submissive getting victims for a dominant partner, we're looking for an impotent dominant using a submissive partner to rape these women vicariously."

"Meaning that the evolution – the 'gradient' – isn't part of the submissive's rebellion, it's calculated," Gideon pointed out. "Meaning that Clyde was probably Bryce's ideal type, to get him invested in the partnership, and then the dominant worked his way towards his ideal type."

"His ideal type being Elizabeth Copeman," Hotch concurred, slowing his steps as they reached the conference room.

"So the dominant got spooked, left Bryce to take the fall – knowing that Bryce was still too loyal to turn on him," Gideon mused. "How did he know that we were investigating? How did he know that we were getting close – to Copeman?"

"We looked into her death," Hotch mused, tapping fingers at his chin. "Paying attention to a long-closed case that was deemed a sucicide. We even –"

Hotch froze, eyes locking on a file in front of them.

"Who else –" Hotch asked precisely, tensely. " – knew that we were looking to connect Copeman and the current murders?"

He picked the file up, flipping it open to show Gideon what it contained.

The interview of Ethan Cray.

* * *

Jane sat at the table, with Ms. Morgan – 'call me Fran' – bustling around with a cheerful stream of chatter. Ms. Morgan commented on how the price for eggs had gone down, and how Desiree was doing at her new job, and how Derek was looking a bit pale from the stress of the case.

Sarah, who sat across from her, caught her gaze. The look Derek's brother sent her was somewhere between amused and sympathetic – leaning more towards the _amused_ category.

Jane suddenly felt like she didn't know where to put her hands.

"Now, Dr. Hart," Ms. Morgan shifted, taking a breath as she set a plate piled high with meatloaf and mashed potatoes. "You've been quiet as a mouse. What's on your mind?"

What a loaded question. She put off answering by scooping some potatoes in her mouth.

They were delicious, if not a bit heavy on the salt.

"Are you still worried about that guy's partner?" Sarah guessed, a Morgan Family KindSmileTM painted across her perfect lips. "Because Derek's the best at what he does, and I hear the rest of your team are, too. They'll catch him."

"That's … not actually …" Jane carefully placed her fork down.

Ms. Morgan sat down. She and Sarah went quiet, let her try to parse it out.

"I –" Jane stopped herself. Tried again. "My … my ex came to see me, after Darryl Bryce attacked me."

"Bad breakup?" Sarah guessed.

"A long one," Jane corrected, gnawing at her lip. "She … well, we were together for a really long time. It's better that we're apart, that we have space now …"

She fiddled with her fork.

"She told me that I needed to … to let her go," Jane grimaced. "And I thought I had. We don't talk, I don't bother her. She doesn't bother me. But … well, she's my emergency contact still. Because … I don't have anyone else."

Sarah opened her mouth, as if to ask … _something_ – but Ms. Morgan silenced her with a look.

"She came to see you, after you got attacked?" Ms. Morgan prompted.

"She told me," Jane poked at the meat on her plate, still unsure why she was even _talking_ about this. "She told me that … that I needed to take a leap of faith. That I needed to _trust_ someone. Anyone."

"Do you trust your team?" Sarah asked.

Jane didn't answer.

"How long have you been working with the BAU?" Ms. Morgan spoke up after a moment. "A year? Two? Longer than Derek."

"A year now," Jane nodded, perforating her food. "But only with Derek for a month or so."

Ms. Morgan considered her.

"Your ex told you to take a leap of faith," She spoke finally. "And I know that you have no reason to listen to me, but I think you should. You've worked with Agent Hotchner and Agent Gideon for a year now – is a year long enough to take a leap? To _trust_ them?"

Jane didn't answer.

They got it anyway. That she didn't know.

* * *

"Cray's not at his apartment, and there's no indication that he's been back since we interviewed him," Morgan reported to them, hiding his frustration behind a professional mask. "He's gone – he left."

"According to records, Ethan Cray didn't exist more than three years ago," Gideon smiled with hidden frustration. "There's no work history, no bank accounts – nothing to trace."

"The landlord said that Cray and Elizabeth Copeman were more than just passing acquaintances," Morgan reluctantly continued. "Said that she thought that they were dating, but she mentioned that she never thought the relationship was healthy."

"Abusive," Gideon cut to the core, dismissing the flowery language. Morgan nodded.

"So Cray's the second unsub," Hotch crossed his arms unhappily. "And he's gone."

"Cray sought out his preferred type, and Copeman must've fit it," Gideon connected the dots. "When his ideal relationship was shattered, as was inevitable, he kills her – strangling her, cutting her wrists, and staging the suicide."

"But his obsession doesn't abate," Hotch picks up. "So he finds a willing accomplice in Bryce, tailoring his victims to Bryce's preferences until he's committed enough to return to his original preference."

"We bring him in, know that we're on his trail, and he ditches," Morgan huffs, cursing how easily Cray slipped through their fingers. "Damn"

"Jane knew."

He and Hotch turned to face Gideon, taking in the grim look on the older man's face.

"Jane knew?" Morgan echoed, confused.

"Jane knew, part of her knew," Gideon repeated. "When she saw Cray, she froze up. She's a great judge of character – she could tell that something was wrong. She could tell that Cray was – not as he seemed."

"Jane never liked Carson, either," Hotch shook his head, dismissing the line of thinking. "We'll put out Cray's description, add him to the Most Wanted List, but there's not much else we can do."

"It's been a week," Morgan grimaced. "But I still think we should stay. Hunt down as many leads as we can before the trail goes completely cold."

Hotch sighed.

"We can't," He shook his head. "I reported to the director while you were at Cray's. He wants us to pull out, other cases are piling up."

Morgan cursed. Profusely.

Hotch couldn't find it in himself to scold him.

* * *

Gideon decides to corner her on the jet.

"If, in the future, you would not like us to call your emergency contact," He begins, perfectly reasonable with his tone – even thought she _knew_ that he was digging. "Then who _would _you like us to contact?"

"No one," She answers, clipped.

"Family?" He tries, and she tries not to dig her fingernails too deeply in her palms. "Parents? Siblings? Aunts, uncles? _Friends?"_

She just ignored him, looking out the windows.

He just kept studying her. _Profiling her._

It hadn't bothered her, before. But now – now she hated it.

"Jane, you're going to have to open up at some point," Hotchner appeared at her shoulder, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Jane's gaze drifted, caught the sight of Morgan asleep down the aisle, headphones over his ears. He looked peaceful.

And like his mom.

Fran Morgan was a kind woman.

A wise woman.

_A leap of faith._

She took a deep breath.

A leap of faith. A year. She … could to this.

"I don't have anyone," She confessed, eyes on Gideon's hands – because she knew that she couldn't look him in the eye. "No one. I had someone, and it was … Maeve was my someone. My only someone. And then … then I didn't have her anymore, but I had to keep her as my emergency contact. Because no one ever believes you when you say that there is no one who would want to know if you almost got strangled. If you almost died_ … did_ die."

They were silent for the rest of the flight. She was thankful for that.

And it helped her – galvanized her to make up her mind.

So she made her decision.

* * *

She returned to Quantico after the sun had gone down, but knowing Hotchner and Jason, she was confident that they'd still be there.

Jane was just a little smug that she had guessed right.

She's in the bullpen, the tips of her fingers worrying the edge of the manilla folder in her hands –

"So you went to find a lawyer, then."

Jane just about jumped out of her skin, biting down sharply on a yelp that threatened to burst out between her teeth. She pivoted sharply to face Morgan, who was looking down at her with a smug look on his mug – proud to elicit a reaction out of her.

Ass.

"The fuck do you know about that?" She demanded, smacking him in the chest with her papers. "What are you, a stalker?"

"No, I'm magic," He deadpans, wiping the smirk off his face for full affect.

"Fine then, _Morgan LeFay,"_ She rolls her eyes. "But seriously."

"I talked to my mom," He confessed, voice soft and a little guilty. "Sorry."

"She's _your_ mom," Jane shrugged it off, even if it stung a little. "What, you got something to say about it?"

"No, not at all," Morgan assured her, a thoughtful look on his face. "But I am a profiler. So I'm pretty sure I know what's in that folder."

Her fingers tightened, crinkling the thick paper.

"And?" She challenged, chin jutted.

_"And _I know that it doesn't matter what I think or have to say," Morgan's lips twitched. "But Doc – I think you're making the right choice."

And he walked away.

She felt lighter.

Jane steeled herself, knocking on Hotchner's door.

* * *

"Jane," Hotch smiled up at her, finishing a line of his paperwork with a quick jot, he dropped his pen. "I thought you'd taken the rest of the day off."

"I had …" Jane considered her words carefully, something he noticed she did when she actually decided to _talk._ "An errand."

She paused briefly, taking in Gideon's relaxed sprawl across his couch.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," She trailed off, backtracking a half step towards the door.

"No, not at all," Gideon waved off her concern. "What's that?"

He nodded to the folder in the doctor's hands, and Hotch must've been tired indeed if he had missed the way that she clutched it. Grip tight, fingers deliberately placed. She was … nervous.

"I –" Jane cut herself off again, a habit that Hotch had _also_ noticed. Instead of starting over, she straightened her shoulders and crossed the room, extending the manilla folder to him.

He took it from her carefully, leaving Gideon to glean from her body language what he could as he looked inside.

Read what was inside.

"Jane," Gideon spoke before Hotch could get a word out, eyes locked on Jane. Hotch lowered the forms to look at the two of them better. "Jane, when's your birthday?"

Jane froze. Rigid and ramrod straight, face carefully wiped of any indication of her thoughts.

"January 1st," She answered after a long moment.

"What year?" Gideon followed promptly.

Again, she took just a tad too long to answer.

"1975."

"You don't seem sure about that," Hotch pointed out, pushing the forms aside for now.

"Hotchner –" She turned to him, clearly trying to speed through Gideon's interrogation.

_"Hotch,"_ He cut her off, an eyebrow raised. "If you're serious about these papers, then the least you can do is call me 'Hotch'."

She breathed in deeply, settled herself.

_"Hotch,"_ She tried again, a tense smile across her lips. "So will you sign them?"

"Where were you born?" Gideon tried again. Jane didn't answer this time, just held Hotch's gaze. Gideon was undeterred.

"Where did you go to Elementary School?" He pressed. "Middle School? _High School?_ What was your first pet's name? The name of your mother? Your father?"

"Will you sign?" Jane asks him, ignoring the questions being shot her way. But she can't suppress all of her emotions, and tension begins to leak into her words.

"Jason, what are you getting at?" Hotch didn't answer.

"I'm getting at the fact that Dr. Hart can't answer any of those questions," Gideon declared, eyes on Jane's rigid spine. "Can't you, Jane?"

"Will you sign those, Hotch?" Jane doesn't answer again, but this time her voice comes out as no more than a whisper.

"Jane, these are Power of Attorney forms," Hotch replied gently, lacing his fingers. "You're asking me to act on your behalf. To be the one to make decisions for you, if you're ever unable to make those decisions yourself. Life support, being brain dead, serious operations – "

"I know, Hotch," Jane smiled sadly, and even though she's still on edge she's … open. More open than he's ever seen her at least. "I told you – I don't have anyone else."

"Because you don't remember anyone else," Gideon buts in, his voice level. "Because if you do have family, you don't remember them. And they haven't found you."

Jane didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

"Why did you never say anything?" Hotch asked, fighting to keep his frustration at bay. "Jane, it's our _job_ to identify the unidentifiable – we could find your family for you. You wouldn't _need_ these –"

He gestured with the packet in his hand, faltering in his words. Irritatingly, Gideon doesn't come to his aid.

"Because you never asked. Because I didn't have to. And – and because I worked too hard to get here," She croaked, fire in her eyes. "And don't you dare tear me apart, cutting into me because you want the answer to the fascinating little mystery that I am. I won't let you."

"Jane –" Hotch tried again.

"No, Hotch –" She held up a hand to cut him off, clenching her jaw. "No. See those papers in your hand? That's … that's my leap of faith. That's me trying to – to stop trying and find whoever I _was _and to start trying to build who I _am."_

Her gaze is pleading, and her shoulders squared. Hotch flicks a glance at Gideon, who remained silent and pensive.

"My name – " Jane continues, fists clenched. Voice hard and clear, pronunciation deliberate. " – is Dr. Jane Hart. That may not be the name I was born to, but it's the only thing I have now. I won't let you take that away from me."

She locked eyes with him.

They were startlingly bright. Lit with the determination and the steel that he had always known was there, behind the silence and the layers of black fabric – and for the first time since that glimpse in his office a year ago, when she came in coiled and ready for a fight, he thought _'Oh, _there _she is.'_

Because there she was.

He picked up his pen. Signed the forms. Tucked them into the manilla folder and offered it to her, an olive branch.

She took them silently. Turned sharply for the door.

"And if we do find who you are, one day?" Gideon broke the silence, stopping her in the doorway. "If we, in our line of work, find who you were?"

She paused.

"Then just give me my name," Jane decided with finality. "And let whoever I was die. Let her ghost lie."

And she left.

* * *

Opening the door to her apartment is akin to how she figured sailors felt after months at sea. Relieved, weary, and like the ground wouldn't stay still beneath her.

She dropped off her bag, kicking off her boots with an awkward shuffle. With fumbling fingers, she manages to get her hair tie out, frowning at the bit of exposed rubber covered in her hair.

She's distracted, so she doesn't notice till she steps on something that is _not_ part of her floor.

Jane jumps back, startled – already cursing how she _was still lacking a gun_ – and looks down at the perfectly placed bouquet in the middle of her path.

A innocuous, bizarre, _inexplicable _bouquet of black flowers, wrapped with a blood red ribbon.

A white envelope peeked out from underneath. With shaky fingers, Jane pulled it out.

_'Oh, my lovely Lotus,'_ It read. _'I'm so glad to have found you again.'_

The words, for reasons that she couldn't place, chilled her to the bone.

She barely made it to the sink before she vomited.


	45. 45

Jane steeled herself and forced her hand to knock on the door.

The reverberation of the wood seemed to hang in the air, and it put her on edge. In that moment, between her knuckles hitting the door and lowering her wrist, all of her worries and fears all crashed down into her in an avalanche of insecurities. But it was too late to turn around – she had already knocked. The only thing to do was wait.

Footsteps tapped softly on the other side of the door. She knew those footsteps.

When Maeve appeared in the doorway, a pleasant smile froze on her face before stuttering into a mask of surprise. Honestly, Jane couldn't blame her.

It had been seven years, after all.

"Watson," Maeve whispered. Jane could tell the name fell out of her mouth unintentionally, and Maeve's face fell and twisted once she realized what she said. Jane didn't hold it against her.

Couldn't.

She still caught herself calling her ex 'Sherlock' in her head.

"Donovan," She tilted her lips up, forcing her fingers not to fidget and twist. "I'm sorry to drop by unannounced."

"Oh –" Maeve just stood there, the edge of the door in one hand and the sleeve of her cardigan worried in the other. "Well."

There was movement behind her, and a tall man with dark hair came into view.

"Babe, who is it?"

Huh. Guess Jane wasn't the only one who moved on.

"Dr. Jane Hart," She stuck a hand out, falling back on the manners her dad (and JJ) had drilled into her. She smiled politely, dismissing the tension in the air. "I'm here to ask a favor of Dr. Donovan. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

Maeve shook her head, a smile forced onto her lips. "This is my fiance, Bobby," She introduced the man, a hand up to gesture at him – hovering awkwardly. "Bobby, this is an old college roommate of mine, Jane. We fell out of touch."

Bobby seemed to buy it.

"May I come in?" She tried, unsure how Maeve would react.

Bobby smiled openly and retreated further into the house. Maeve just nodded stiltedly, and let her in.

The apartment _screamed_ Maeve in a way that only a home truly could. Files were on every surface and books on any to spare. Cardigans were tossed over the edge of armchairs and couches with math-pun throw pillows propped up against the cushions.

It reminded her of when they used to live together. Maeve dominating the space, Jane barely leaving a mark. But it was different here – Bobby was _present _here. There were sports magazines and too-large boots and books on engineering – they balanced each other, better than the two of them did, back in the day.

It was comforting. That Maeve had found someone better for her, just like how Jane had found someone better for herself.

Even if Jane's 'better' was currently up to his ears in terrorists in Pakistan.

Maeve cleared a Dalek themed blanket off a chair. Jane sat. Maeve sat. Bobby retreated into the kitchen for reasons unknown, a smile thrown over his shoulder.

Jane didn't know how to start.

"How – how did you find me?" Maeve broke the silence, asking before Jane could muster up the courage to begin

"I contacted your parents," Jane admitted a bit stiltedly, a bit embarrassed. "They told me where you were working, so I called your boss. I only reached out a week ago."

_'I let you go, just like I promised. I only started looking recently, I swear.'_

Jane didn't know why after all these years she still felt like she had to justify herself. Sherlock could always see right through her – words were useless under the microscope of Maeve Donovan. Maeve's lips tilted into her quirky little smile. Jane could tell she saw her thoughts painted across her face, just as expected.

Bobby returned then, in the wary silence, with two beers and a mug of tea for Maeve. Jane accepted her bottle with a quick flash of a thankful smile.

"So old roommates, huh?" Maeve's fiance smiled, a wide, cheerful grin. "Med school?"

"Yes, med school," Maeve confirmed, clearly trying to relax into the small talk. "Jane and I were roommates from our first day, all the way through. Even still lived together after she graduated early."

_"Early?"_ He laughed, delighted. "Damn, no way. Earlier than _Maeve_ did? You must be _real_ smart."

"Or just really determined," Jane shrugged, feeling off kilter as she always did when someone compared her to someone like Maeve - or Reid. "Maeve is smarter than me; I just took the stupidly-fast track."

"Her work ethic is insuperable," Maeve locked gazes with her, and Jane hoped that she wasn't imagining some of the old fondness and exasperation in her eyes. "Even if that meant that she was working herself to the bone, right down through into her periosteum."

"Oh, come on, give me a little more credit than that –" Jane quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sure that I made it all the way down to the marrow."

And they laughed, Bobby sitting back and grinning at their antics.

"So how long has it been since you've last seen each other?" Bobby chuckled, glancing between them. "A year, two?"

And then just like that all humor was abruptly sucked out of the room. Jane cleared her throat awkwardly.

"It has been …" Maeve thought on it. "Seven years?"

"Seven years," Jane nodded, bobbing her head. Her cheeks twitched, an apologetic grimace. "Seven years."

Bobby seemed to pick up on the disconnect between them for the first time. The infectious grin he'd sported since Jane first saw him slipped off his face.

"Oh, well," He sipped at his beer mechanically, eyes flickering between them. "Seven years is a long time.

"You're right," Maeve laughed lightly, if a little sadly. "Seven years is a long time. I never thought I'd see the day that Jane Doe ever willingly faced her past."

The years yawned between them.

"I'm not here to dredge up bad memories," Jane cleared her throat awkwardly, digging into her bag. "I'm here for a … well, I suppose it would be a patient."

"You _'suppose'?" _Maeve echoed, confusion overtaking her tone as Jane reached into her satchel. Eyes were on her as she pulled out a binder of Spinner's complete medical workup, a memory stick, and a small box of samples. She set them gingerly on the coffee table in front of them.

"What are those?"

"This is the medical information of …" Jane didn't know the right word. "Of … of my brother."

Maeve looked up sharply. Bobby looked on with confusion.

"And he's been having horrible, debilitating headaches for half a year now," Jane charged forward, refusing to linger. "In the box are some DNA samples, blood samples, and in the folder is his history. The flash drive has his CT and MRIs and CAT scans. I can't find any reason for his headaches – but what do I know? I just stick people back together again or cut them open after they're gone – you're the one who always knew how bodies really worked."

Jane stood then, pushed herself up and out of the armchair because she knew that if she didn't leave then she'd just get stuck in that chair, staring at the woman she once was hopelessly in love with and dependent on and wishing that she could go back to before … before she _remembered _–

She had to go. She promised Jack they could Skype Rin together before dinner.

"There are no names, no revealing details – don't worry about HIPPA or anything," Jane turned away, ran nails over her scalp, tousled her hair. "I left my phone number. If you find anything, please call – not for me, but for my brother. He's the one who needs it … _Deserves _it."

And she left. Before Maeve could turn her away.

* * *

Maeve stared at the phone in her hand and didn't know whether or not to dial.

Seeing Doe again …

She remembered that last time, in that hospital in Flint. When Jane had bruising around her neck that was visible over her high collar, and how her voice was hoarse with pain and strain. When Jane was small and tired – so different from the rebellious and defiant woman she was once in love with.

Who she broke up with.

She'd seen Jane small and shy, flinching at the world – and she'd seen Jane big and pissy, determined to fight the world. But she'd never seen her like … like _that._ Like, like _yes – _she'd lived hard and rough, but she'd settled. Like she wasn't searching anymore, struggling to figure out who she was.

She said 'brother'.

That's part of why she finally called.

(But part of it was because before she and Watson had tripped into bed together … well, they'd been friends first. The kind of friend that neither of them had ever had – or, perhaps, remembered having – and the kind of friend that Maeve … well, she hadn't had since.

(It was only towards the end there, that Jane began to really fall apart. Before that, she was … incredible.))

The phone rings twice before she answers.

_"Dr. Hart."_

Maeve had forgotten that name. Jane was always 'Doe' or 'Watson' to her.

"Hey, Doe," She cleared her throat. Fiddled with the flashdrive between her fingers. "I've got that workup you wanted. And … and a proposed treatment plan, for your – your brother."

The word nearly stuck in her throat. The other end of the line was silent.

"Doe?"

_"Yeah, sorry," _Doe awkwardly chuckled, and Maeve could picture her face. How she would skim her thumb nail over her lip as she thought up the right words – forced herself to put together the sentence in her head before speaking._ "Yeah, I'm sorry. I just – didn't expect you to call me back."_

"Oh."

Maeve … was disappointed. In herself. In how things ended. Because there was a point in time when that would've never been in question.

But people change. _Relationships _change.

"Well, I did," Meave tried to inject some cheer in her voice. "And … and I think he'll be fine, if he sticks to the plan I've outlined."

_"I'll make sure he does."_

They both fall silent.

_"Well, I'll –"_ Watson was signing off, and then Maeve could suddenly see another seven years of silence looming in front of them – seven years of unresolved tension and missed opportunities.

She didn't … _couldn't _... Not again.

The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Jane, I'm sorry for breaking up with you."

She held her breath.

_"Don't be."_

Jane seemed to gather herself. Maeve forced herself to breathe.

_"Donovan, when you ended things between us it … it was for a good reason,"_ Jane assured her softly. _"A really good reason – and I get it. I was … I was killing myself. And I was making you watch, _forcing _you to sit back and watch because I wouldn't let you help me. And that was on me."_

"But I shouldn't've left you," Maeve protested, years of worry and self-inflicted disgust bubbling up and boiling over. "Doe, you were two seconds away from slitting your wrists and I just _let_ you. Let you go, let you suffer. I could've _helped."_

_"Maeve, it wasn't your _job _to."_

She held back the sob that threatened to break through her chest.

_"You were my capstone, Maeve,"_ Jane sighed deeply, wearlily._ "But you never signed up for that. You were the one thing holding me up, but I just kept adding more and more and more – and of course you began to crumble. And of course you had to leave me, because it wasn't your job to hold me up. Your only responsibility should've been to hold up _yourself."

"I couldn't do it anymore," She hoarsely whispered, scrubbing at her face. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't."

_"Of course you couldn't – and I should've never made you feel like you had to,"_ Jane laughed –_ laughed _– and it's sad and knowing and full of an aged wisdom that made the knot of pain ease in Maeve's chest_. "You left, and it made me see that I_ needed_ help. That I needed to stop drinking and partying and throwing myself into every reckless situation I could get my hands on. You saw that I was destroying myself and told me that you would have no part in it – and I want to thank you for that, because it's _because _you ended things that I'm here now." _

Jane snorted darkly, and if Maeve closed her eyes she could almost see her.

_"And I'm not exaggerating, because we both know I would've died," _Jane's bluntness twinged her heart – with pain and familiarity and dark comfort. _"Killed myself, gotten killed – dead all the same. But you left, and I didn't – so please don't regret choosing yourself over me. We both were better for it in the end."_

Maeve didn't … well, it didn't _fix_ things. But it made that yawning void of guilt in her chest shrink, just a little.

"I can send you the flashdrive by mail, if you'd like," Maeve offered, remembering the original point of the call. "Or … or we could meet up for coffee, sometime?"

She'd like to think that Jane smiled at that.

_"Yeah, maybe," _Jane replied, voice light. _"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."_

* * *

Jane had just dropped Jack off at Jessica's and was headed to the coffee shop they decided on when her phone rang.

She checked it, wondering if Maeve was … cancelling? Chickening out? Changing her mind?

But no, it was JJ.

And with a frown on her lips, wondering why the Media Liaison cum Profiler would call her – if there was something wrong, if Henry was sick, if Will was injured –

_"Jane Marisole Lotus Ryden Hart, you actual bitch."_

Or not?

"Aww, don't leave me hanging like that," She mock-scolded, even as she was thinking back on what the _hell_ she could've done to piss the scary woman off. "Tell me – is it because I bought Will those tickets to the Saints game? It was his birthday, Jayje, and just because you're more in love with the Redskins game stats than your boy-toy doesn't mean that he can't go drool over the New Orleans quarterbacks."

_"Oh my god – _no,_ Ivy – that's not even –"_ She huffed, aggravated. _"We got a notice from the bank in the mail today."_

Then it all clicked into place.

"Ah."

_"'Ah' – is that all you have to say?"_ JJ made another sound akin to a choking giraffe. _"She says 'ah' – Jane, why is there a savings account in Henry's name with 300,000_ _dollars in it?"_

"Well, I drew Spinner into a highly educational conversation about the expected inflation of college prices in the next 20 years," Jane answered, flicking on her turn signal. "60,000 per year for four years, rounding up, should do you just fine in an Ivy league school, including fees – and that's not taking into account accumulated interest, scholarships, or the money you and Will put into it. I figured 300k should cover it."

JJ went silent.

Jane waited as the light turned red.

_"Jane, why are you paying for my son's college education?"_ JJ asked with an impressive level of self control, keeping her voice completely calm and reasonable. A learned skill, after years talking to the media, months training to be a profiler, and what must've felt like a lifetime's worth of dealing with Jane's particular brand of chaotic bullshit.

"JJ, I'm a barren multi-billionaire with no living relatives and absolutely _no_ materialistic tendencies," Jane answered dryly. "If it makes you feel better, I've already set one up for Jack – and I have some set aside for whenever the rest of those stupidly competent, somehow single idiots of ours decide to pop out some brats of their own. You're just the first to notice – I mean, I _did _hide the bank statement from Hotch, though. Not that it matters, considering he's on the opposite side of the goddamn _planet _…"

Jane trailed off, tilting her head in confusion. The sounds coming through her receiver …?

"JJ?" She asked warily, wondering if she should pull over or turn around or something. "JJ, are you _crying?"_

_"I – just – you –"_ JJ, who was definitely crying, and there was a fumbling sound before Will's dulcet, honeyed tones filtered through instead.

_"She's just gon' need a mo'ment, 's all," _Will reassured her, a twinge of amusement thickening his accent. _"Now, I know tha' Jayje ain't quite keen w'th you settin' this up for Henry, but I think I unn'rstand. An' I wanna thank you, for bein' so good to us. We'll owe you – and owe you mo' than one."_

"Will, you two just raise that kid of yours to be the best little man you can and we'll call it even," Jane laughed. "And maybe sometime you and Jayje can take me and Rin through New Orleans – show us the best places to get a drink and a healthy dose of culture."

_"You got you'self a deal, Doc'ta,"_ Will laughed. _"You got you'self a deal."_

"Sound great, Will," She pulled into the cafe's parking lot, throwing her car out of gear. She smiled fondly at the gratitude in Will's tone. "I gotta go – I'll drop by with Jack sometime next week. Con some cajun cooking out of you yet."

And she hung up as his full, Louisiana laugh sounded loud and free.

* * *

Maeve was late.

Jane studied the untouched hot chocolate in front of her. Looked at the tea she ordered, going cold in front of Maeve's empty chair.

She fiddled with her phone, flipping it over in her hands. Looked back at the tea. Back at the less-than-hot chocolate.

Sighed. And she opened her phone, scrolling through her contacts.

_"Dr. Reid speaking."_

"Spinner, I think I just got stood up," She hunched forward, letting her forehead _smack_ against the table.

_"Umm … but – Garcia said you and Hotch …" _Spinner stiltedly replied after a long moment, awkward and confused. _"And he's still –"_

"Stood up _by a friend,"_ She corrected, rolling her eyes and totally done with the world's shit. "Or I _thought_ we were friends again. Or we were trying to be, trying to reconnect and shit. God – I should've _known_ it would'nt've been that easy –"

_"I'm sorry,"_ He offered, on better footing._ "I hope you didn't pay for tickets or a reservation or anything."_

"Only a seven dollar cup of tea," She huffed, pulling a draw from her room-temp chocolate – promptly pulling a face. "God that's vile – whatever, I was kidding myself. Guess the past needs to just lie in the past."

She waited for Spinner's no doubt sarcastic, witty retort. Maybe some quip about statistics in regards to how many people get stood up in a day, or the number of wasted drinks in any given year.

But it never came. She sat up, pulling her phone from her cheek to see that it had hung up on her. Or Spinner. Or both of them – either way, the call had ended. Stupid fucking phone – if it was gonna drop calls like that, she was switching to Samsung.

She tossed it on the table in front of her, stubbornly sipping at her cold chocolate. Frugal once, frugal always – sudden billionaire or not, she hated waste.

She toyed with the idea of calling Rin – Pakistan time meant he was probably just getting up. It'd be good for her spirits to bother him about his bed hair.

Yeah, that was a good idea – she was gonna do that.

Or, at least she _was_ – before she realized that her phone wasn't working. Like, not even dead – blue screen of death not working. Dropping calls and now glaring at her with a glowing, frozen screen.

She hit it a couple times against the table. It didn't do anything.

… Wait.

Sherlock didn't show. She said she was going to – Maeve kept her promises. And she would've called or texted if she couldn't make it … and expected Jane to do the same –

She didn't hang up on Reid. Reid probably didn't hang up, either –

Which meant that someone else hung up.

"I know that face," A man's voice came from behind her – a voice she knew. "Amina gets that same look. You're connecting those dots in your head."

Jane looked up. Set down her hacked phone oh-so-carefully – because the alternative was chucking it at him.

"Andy," She greeted the man, trying not to flex her jaw. "Or should I call you 'Drew'?"

"Andy, like my name," He chuckled as he sat, the movement of his body flexing the leather of his jacket and the muscles in his neck. "Drew was as 'me' as that damn tie was."

"Dunno, you could stand to look less like a hooligan," She drawled, studying him. "You've aged."

"I'm not sure if you noticed, Ivy, but so did you."

"I know –" She frowned, not letting him goad her like he used to. "Since you drugged me in Montana. You've aged."

His easy, knowing smirk slipped off his face at that.

"Why did you do it?" She asked – because, honestly, she couldn't figure it out.

"Do what?"

"Find me?" Jane didn't have a better way of saying it. "Andrew, you and I never got along – sure, we were never at each other's throats, but we were on two different sides and you know it. So why? Why do you even care?"

And he looked at her. Just looked at her.

And Jane couldn't remember a time that he ever really _did._ As Ivy she was an interloper, a privileged girl suddenly thrust onto the streets in the wake of tragedy – refusing to talk about her past, her … anything. When at first Vine was on her side, Andy and Daniel were vehemently against her. But after she and Daniel … well, Amina changed her tune real quick, and Andy was right there with her.

Never, at any point, had Andy given her more than a cursory, dismissive, passing glance. Even when he was insulting her, or talking about how she didn't belong … he never really _saw._

But Andy was seeing her now. Seeing her as a FBI Agent and a doctor. As a survivor and a victim. As a fighter and a … maybe as a protector, too.

And in him she saw weariness. Exhaustion. His fight and fire was still there, but it was muted. Dull.

"I still don't like you," Andy sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But Ivy, I think I might understand you, a bit now. More than I did, but that doesn't suddenly make everything right."

"I didn't expect it to," She shrugged, too tired to defend her past-self.

"Good," He quirked a corner of his lip. "And I don't. Care, that is. I don't – I don't care about you, Ivy, I care about Amina. And Amnia …"

"Ha!" Jane laughed, loud and sharp – energized. "If you're going to imply that Amina cares about me in any way other than some belated, pitying responsibility then you're more deluded than I thought. She can't even _look_ at me –"

"Regardless of how Amina feels about you," Andy cut her off, eyes flashing. "She does care about her brother. Will always care. And fact is, Daniel chose you."

"Yeah, well, Danny's dead."

"Not all of him is," He snapped, fed up with beating around the bush – old resentment bubbling up. "Not his kid."

**Edited: 7-12-20, continuity.**


	46. 46

Jane wakes slowly.

It's a fond, contented kind of slow. The 'work doesn't start for four hours, thank fuck for late mornings' kind of slow. She can feel the warmth of the sun streaming in through the window, and Rin's arm is slung loosely across her back – his warmth a pleasant treat in the bite of the early morning air.

She doesn't know how long she lays there, half awake, but she doesn't care. And after an indefinite, heavenly length of time she allows a smile to creep across her face, a soft laugh to be muffled by her pillow.

"Now, Agent Hotchner," She cracks an eye open, leveling an unimpressed look at Hotch's playful grin. "Didn't you ever learn to keep your hands to yourself?"

"Can't say that I have," Rin grins, his calloused fingers continuing to trail over the small of her back, tracing over the lines of her ink and her scars. "Is there a problem, Dr. Hart?"

She turned over under his hand, his warm palm resting on her hip as she faced him. She smirked, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

"And why –" She leaned forward, bumping noses with him. "– would I have a problem?"

Hotch smirked, mischief in his eyes as he readied an answer –

And then Jack burst into the room, a wide smile across his face.

The mood abruptly left the room.

"Jack, we talked about this!" Hotch scolded the preteen before the little brat could say anything. _"Always knock_ – especially when Jane's here."

"Sorry," Jack looked abashed, if only for a moment. "But at least you're both wearing your pjs."

Yes, and all of their important bits were covered but that was beside the point. She rolled her eyes, trading reluctantly amused glances with Aaron.

What can you do? Kids.

"Morning, Little Bear," She sat up against the headboard, gesturing for him to hop up with her. He gladly obliged, curling up in her side. "You sleep well?"

"Morning, Jane," He smiled up at her, some apology and guilt resurfacing. "I'm sorry that I didn't knock."

"You _know _knocking is just as much for you as it is for us," Jane smiled dryly down at him, running her fingers through his blonde locks. "What if you came in and your dad and I were _kissing?_ With our _tongues."_

Aaron laughed at the pinched and disgusted look on his son's face.

"Okay, okay," Jack allowed, squirming as his fingers trailed over the patchwork of scars on Jane's exposed arms. It tickled, where she still had feeling. "I'm sorry. I'll knock next time, I _promise."_

"Good," Aaron ruffled Jack's hair, earning himself a squawk. "Did you need something, buddy? You're up awful early, and you usually give us more of a chance to sleep in."

"I – well," Jack blushed, pulling back and sitting up. "Well – "

He jumped off the bed then, held out his hand to Jane with a shy smile on his face, dimples in his cheeks. She glanced at Hotch, not sure what to think, and slowly extended her hand to the little boy. With a shout of laughter, he dragged her up and off the bed and into the hall, Hotch trailing behind them.

Jack manuvoers them into the kitchen, settling her down into a seat at the breakfast bar. Hotch sits down next to her, watching Jack as he puttered around the kitchen, 'covertly' pulling out this and that and bits and bobs from various drawers.

Some tupperware containers and utensils later, a bowl of blackberries is placed in front of her – piled high and dusted with sugar. Maybe a little more than dusted – but it's almost expected, with Jack's sweet tooth. A fork is practically shoved in her hand, and a toasted bagel slathered with acuka is plated next to her elbow.

"Whoa, this is _quite_ the spread, Little Bear," Jane laughed, delighted. "Did you do all this yourself?"

"Aunt Jess helped," He grinned proudly. "Do you like it?"

"Like it? I _love_ it!" Jane laughed, popping a blackberry in her mouth. "What's the occasion? It's not my birthday, is it?"

(Wait … _was _it? – No, that was in August. Or in January. And right now it was May, right?)

Jack _blushed._ And muttered something quiet and impossible to parse through.

"One more time, buddy," Hotch cocked his head, amused. "Little louder, and slower."

"It's – well –"

And he abruptly runs off towards his room, leaving Jane to wonder exactly _when_ her boyfriend's son had begun to pick up so many of her verbal habits. Especially the 'oh's and the 'well's and the not finishing sentences part.

He's returned before she can come up with an answer, hands behind his back and a nervous air about him.

"We – well, Mrs. Anderson decided on Friday that we should make cards in class," Jack began, toying with and toeing the carpet. "And –"

He pulled out a piece of folded construction paper, covered in glitter and decorated with various doctor paraphernalia – stethoscopes and needles and red crosses – along with flowers and hearts. Jack presented it to her with red ears.

Jane takes it bemusedly, and Hotch leans over with a smile on his face as she opens it.

_Happy Mother's Day, Jane._

* * *

_'Show me how to lie – you're getting better all the time. And turning all against the one – is an art that's hard to teach–'_

The bag in front of her swayed, jumping with each hit as the bass in her ears reverberated through her ribcage. Her knuckles smarted, straining and splitting with each hit – but she kept punching.

_'Another clever word sets off an unsuspecting herd and as you step back into line – a mob jumps to their feet –'_

Her breath is ragged and her throat is dry, but she just keeps beating on the bag because if she stops she'll have to _think._

_'Now dance, fucker, dance –! Man, he never had a chance – and no one even knew – it was really only you –'_

Suddenly her music cuts out. Jane whirls around, hands in a defensive stance –

And it's Morgan. Standing there, with her earbuds in his hands.

And he's just _looking_ at her. And suddenly all she wants to do is _punch_ that _stupid look_ off his _perfect face –_

He swings first.

She hits back.

Her headphones are cast aside, and the dummy forgotten.

The pounding in her head might be her heart, might be the anger she's throwing into each punch, each kick. As they brawl, he strips his hoodie and her hair comes loose – it's dirty and it's angry and he gives as good as he gets. Her shoulder stings from a roundhouse of his, and he's got a welt on his chin from her elbow.

And he doesn't say a word.

_And now you steal away – take him out today. _

_Nice work you did – you're gonna go far, kid – _

Worked up and angry and frustrated and guilty and disgusted and every single emotion over years and _years_ of – of _everything_ – and she just –

Just _can't – _

_With a thousand lies and a good disguise – _

_Hit 'em right between the eyes –! Hit 'em right between the eyes– !_

And she just thinks of every smile she gave. Every tear she couldn't. Every day waking up in Rin's house and every time Jack came rushing up to her –

Jack –

_When you walk away – Nothing more to say._

_Nothing more to say._

_Nothing more to say._

_NOTHING MORE TO SAY — _

And then they're on the ground. Her elbow is jammed in his jugular and he's got his legs scissored around her waist and a fist in her diaphragm and her hair is spilling over everything –

And they're both panting. Both sweaty and exhausted and drained and …

She shoves him off her, twisting under him and sliding through his grip. He could've stopped her, but she's not continuing the fight – or whatever the hell that was – so Morgan just sits back. Watches as she swipes her water bottle off the floor and dumps it down her throat.

Her hands still won't stop shaking.

And suddenly Emily's there too, her hair up as if she was getting ready for a workout herself. Her face is creased with worry.

"Jane, are you –"

"Fuck off," She snarls, shoving past her. Not having it. Not wanting to _talk _about it –

Not to any of them.

The room is silent as she leaves.

* * *

When Rossi hears about Jane and Morgan going at each other in the training room, he immediately goes to find Hotch.

"What the hell."

It's not even a question, even if grammatically and logically it is. It's just a comment on the state of the world, really. An expression of bewilderment and confusion and concern, and it is _so much _rolled into three words, three flat words.

Hotch doesn't even look at him, too busy staring at the picture of Jack's eighth birthday party on his desk, Jane laughing with her arms around the kid.

That, in itself, is more telling than anything else.

"Jane went full blown MMA All-Star on Morgan before disappearing into thin air," Dave finally says, because he's sure that Hotch has heard about it but _damn._ "I knew that Ivy lived on the streets –"

"Enough, Dave," Hotch cuts him off. "Enough. Leave it alone."

"Leave it alone," Rossi repeats. _Has _to repeat that _bullshit_ request. _"Leave it alone?"_

"Yes, just –" Hotch exhales sharply through his nose. "Jane needs some time, okay?"

"No, not okay," Rossi shakes his head. "I get it – you're protecting her and her mental state and her emotions and whatever the hell else. You may not tell Blake, or Strauss, or – I dunno, _Jessica _about what's going on, because they don't know her. Not really. But you can't block me out, not now. Because there are maybe seven people in the world that can understand what is going on in that woman's head and _you cannot do this all alone._ And nor can she."

Hotch studies his hands.

Reaches into his bag.

Pulls out a card from his bag, and passes it over to him.

Rossi opens it silently.

"She didn't let Jack – didn't let Jack see it affect her," Hotch spoke after a long, weary moment. "She's gotten better at lying."

"She's always been good," Rossi sighed, wishing for a drink. Handing the card back. "I think being a businesswoman just gave her an outlet."

Hotch didn't answer.

"So she took it – didn't take it well, then," Rossi filled the air. Tried to connect the dots.

"I don't know how she took it," Aaron scrubbed his face. "She's shut me out. Went through the motions then left as soon as she was able. Jack ..."

"Give her time," Rossi offers, even though Aaron already knows this. "It's all we can do."

And he pours them both a couple fingers of scotch.

"And how did you take it?"

Hotch looked up at him. His face drawn taught and his shoulders high. He didn't answer.

"Come on, Aaron – how long have we known each other?" Rossi scolded. "Your son gave your girlfriend a Mother's Day card. _How do you feel?"_

"Haley –" Hotch tries to begin, but Dave cuts that off at the root.

"Haley is dead," Dave stops him. "Haley died, Hotch. It's just you and Jack now – and Jane, if you let her. If you want her. Jack lost his mom, and now he's decided to pick the woman _you chose_ as his new one. How do you _feel?"_

The Unit Chief studied the drink in his hand. Swirled the amber liquid, face inscrutable. Turmoil hidden.

"... Jack deserves a Mom," He spoke after an infinitely long moment. "And … and I cannot think of anyone better."

"There you go, then," Rossi smiled, sipping smooth scotch himself. "Easy. Now you just need to get Jane onboard."

To be fair, the glare Hotch gave him at that was probably warranted.

* * *

Jane takes a deep breath, running her fingers through her wet hair. The – the fight and the shower and the blowing of steam was all _good_ but –

It wasn't enough.

Because now she wasn't so worked up, but she still had a lump of magma behind her sternum that she needed to address. But right now _she _didn't come first. She never came first – and this morning she fucked up – so she was going to have to fix it.

It was Sunday (Mother's Day was always on a Sunday) so Jack was at Jess' in the afternoon, after their late starts when they weren't out of town.

Hotch must've dropped Jack off alone, today.

She knocked, not quite sure how Jess would want her to announce herself.

Jess' girlfriend, Mel, was the one who answered.

"Oh, Jane – hi," The stout woman smiled, opening the door for her to come in. "I thought you were at work. Jack's in the back, getting some school work done on the porch."

"Hi Mel, good to see you," Jane entered, hovering in the foyer. "I'm taking some time off today. Any way I could steal Jack? Has he eaten?"

"He already ate lunch, but dinner's still a ways off, as you know," Mel studied her – saw her disquiet. "Is everything alright? Jack has been … off. Today."

"He ... and I need to talk," Are all the words that Jane can muster. "I was hoping to grab him and run for some ice cream, clear the air. Is that alright?"

"Fine by me – and me is all you'll get. Jessica's out," Mel smiled at her warmly. "I'll grab the little brat."

"No, no I got it," Jane stopped her, surging forward. Mel just blinked at her, startled.

"If you're sure."

* * *

Jack was quiet the whole ride over. Didn't even speak to order, so she got him a triple chocolate waffle cone, his favorite.

Jane figured that it was only a matter of time until someone turned her own tactics and habits back on her. Honestly though? She expected Rossi to be passive aggressive enough to do it first.

Just her luck that Jack beat him to the punch.

They sat in silence for a little longer, the two of them steadily plowing through their treats. Jane could sit on a bench and lick mint chocolate chip off her spoon silently – she was good with silence. But even though Jack was good at pretending … the Little Bear _wasn't._

"Did your Dad ever tell you about how I got the scars on my arms?" She speaks eventually, eyes on the street rather than studying Jack. It was rhetorical anyway; she and Hotch had talked over what they wanted the kid to know.

She feels him nod next to her. At least he's listening.

"And I know your dad told you about how I lost my memories, a long time ago. And that's why I was gone for a couple months last year, because I got a lot of them back."

Another nod.

Deep breath.

"Jack, when I was younger my family died – my mom, and my dad, and my sister and my brothers and all my uncles and aunts and cousins ... I didn't have anyone, because they all died," Jane toyed with her cup of dessert. "And when they died, I ran away. I ran all the way to Chicago – which was very far to go when you're just a teenager like I was."

She could tell she had his attention, even if he was still in a mood. Still … grumpy and disappointed. Her fault. Always her fault.

"When I was in Chicago I met this girl, and her name was Amina," Jane continued, closing her eyes against the memories. "And Amina had a brother named Danny."

Jack looked up at her, and she looked down at him. He was still … still not smiling or crowing about how awesome his chocolate ice cream was. Just _looking _(..._damn_ the Hotchner poker face). But he was a smart kid – he _was _his father's son, after all – and he knew that Jane didn't talk about things like this. And he wondered where it was going.

"You know how your dad loves me?" Jane ran her fingers through his golden locks, setting aside her ice cream. "And when your mom was alive, he loved her?"

Jack nodded, face pinched. There was chocolate on his nose.

"Well a long time ago, I loved someone, too. Just like how your dad loved your mom," She explained, tugging gently at his ear. "And just like how your dad doesn't stop loving your mom just because he loves me, I didn't stop loving Danny just because I love your dad. Does that make sense?"

Jack nodded, licking his cone to keep it from dripping.

"I loved Danny very much, and I still love him," Jane swallowed, going for the simplest explanation. "But just like how your mommy died, Danny died, too."

"Did a bad guy take him away, too?" Jack asked, sad and sympathetic. The first words he'd spoken.

"Yeah, Little Bear," Jane swallowed thickly, wiping chocolate off his nose. "Yeah, a very bad guy took Danny away, too."

They ate in silence a little longer.

"... is that why I can't call you Mom?" Jack asked – and it broke her heart. "Because you miss Danny?"

"Jack –" Her voice cracked, forcing her fingers not to crush the cone in her hand. To breathe, because he deserved _so much better._ "Jack, I would love _nothing more_ than to be your mom."

And she looked him in the eye. Looked at him and tried to convey the love that she had for him – this little boy. To dive into that part of her that remembered how much her father had loved her, how much Rob had, and to show _her Little Bear _that she _loved him._ So _incredibly_ much.

His bottom lip quivered, and he ducked under her arm – pressed up against her side.

"Jack, when you gave me that card I wasn't upset because I didn't want to be your mom," Jane assured him, rubbed circles onto his back because _he needed to understand._ "I was all mixed up. Because a very long time ago, when I loved Danny, I was _so scared_ to be a mom. I was so scared I was gonna be a bad mom, because I never had a real mom. Not … not really. And then …"

She swallowed roughly, held back her tears. Tried to put the words together.

"Jack, I haven't talked about this … but I can't have a baby of my own," She wet her lips. Blinked her eyes. "I won't be able to have kids with your dad – I won't be able to give you a little brother or a little sister. My body won't let me make a baby … and I never thought I'd be a mom, I thought that I wasn't _supposed _to be."

She tried to hold back her tears. Jack just kept gazing up at her, with his open, trusting, loving face – and it killed her. Because he – he loved her. Despite everything, he loved her.

"And then when I started dating your Dad, I was scared, kiddo – I was scared," Jane crouched down in front of him, sliding off the bench to face him. "I was _scared – _because I thought that if I couldn't be a mom, with my own baby, then how could I be good enough to be your mom? Especially when you already had a mom."

"But Mommy's gone," Jack shook his head, petulant and sad. "And I don't have her anymore. But you can have more than one mom – Auntie Mel and Aunt Jess are moms to George and Thomas – why can't I have two moms too?"

This fucking kid.

"I'm being silly," Jane smiled, bopping him on the nose gently, grinning at the face he pulled. "That's the thing, Jack. I'm being silly – all the time, I'm worrying about the wrong things. Thinking too much when I don't need to. Will you forgive me?"

He mulled it over.

"I really loved the breakfast you made me," She assured him. "And I'm sorry if I seemed disappointed, buddy. But I wasn't – I promise. I am so, so happy. And I would love to be your mom, if you let me."

He grinned shyly. She mirrored it right back.

"... Can I call you 'Mom'?" He asked softly.

She smiled at him, at _her son_ – and she kissed his chocolatey hands.

"I would love for you to call me 'Mom'," She answered.

And at his wide, delighted grin – something inside her broke.

* * *

She hadn't seen Jane all day when she unlocks her door to nearly trip over her.

Blake nearly screamed, but she was proud of how she kept her head (just barely).

She controlled her breathing. Closed her eyes. Shut the door, counted to ten.

Deep breaths.

Jane isn't even _looking _at her even though she _clearly _knows she's there. The woman was a _menace._

"How did you get in?" She asks the doctor rhetorically once she regains her footing, keeping her tone even.

"Lock picks," Jane answered flatly – the verbal reply a surprise within itself – as she took a deep swig of some strong looking alcohol. "Didn't have a key."

"I didn't realize we were close enough _for_ you to have a key," Blake tilted her head, slowly lowering herself and her bag to the floor across from Jane. "Is there a reason you're getting drunk in my foyer?"

_"This – "_ Jane emphasized, holding up the bottle of whiskey – Johnny Walker Black, probably stolen from Rossi. Good stuff. "– is _medicinal. _Excuse you."

"You're a doctor," Blake cocked an eyebrow, eying Jane's split knuckle and a bandage peeking through her turtleneck. "You have access to antiseptics and antibacterial agents galore. You and Morgan punched each other _hours ago._ And you resort to unreasonably expensive whiskey to clean your wounds."

"Left my bag at Hotch's," Jane grumbled, taking another swig. "I was too cowardly to run in when I dropped Jack off."

Alex didn't know what to say to that.

But _dammit Jane _that is some _really very expensive whiskey_ you're drinking _straight from the bottle._

"At least have the decency to use a glass," Alex huffed, pushing off the floor with a grunt to retrieve some tumblers. Refusing to linger.

Jane was silent until she returned. It restored some equilibrium, back to old patterns.

Alex sat, placing the glasses carefully on her hardwood floors. She gently tugged the bottle, still half full, out of Jane's hands to pour them both a glass – carefully setting the still-open whiskey out of Jane's reach.

"Rude," Jane grumbled, picking up her drink and studying the tumblers with idle interest. "But these are nice."

"My husband's mother gave them to us as a wedding gift," Alex smiled, studying the delicately carved scenes frosted into the class. "She had a taste for forest scenes, something that she was delighted that I shared."

They drank in silence.

It really was good whiskey.

"You weren't at work," Alex finally broke the silence, not even sure if Jane would reply. Four months together and they still barely talked. It was expected, she supposed – Jane hardly talked to anyone.

"I was," Jane studied her knuckles, tipping a bit of whiskey on them with a hiss through her teeth. A few haphazard drops dripped carelessly on her lap. "But then I left."

"You were only there long enough to use Morgan as a punching bag," Alex corrected her dryly. "You didn't actually complete any _work."_

"Yeah, well, it wasn't the day," Jane grumbled.

Alex – Alex was a linguist.

And she _listened_ to what people were saying, even if it wasn't much.

"Is it because today is Mother's Day?"

Jane didn't answer. She didn't have to.

"Does this have something to do with Hotch?" Blake shot into the dark, but even before she'd finished Jane was shaking her head.

"No, no – god, fuck you."

Alex blinked.

"Fuck you and your perfect word skills," Jane scrubbed at her face, more tired than anything – no vitrol, just exhaustion. "How the hell do you do it? You – the words just – I have to –"

She huffed. Gritted her teeth.

"Did you know?" Jane spoke after a long, long moment. Frustrated. "I didn't speak to anyone outside of my family until I was six."

Alex froze.

"Nothing worked, not that we tried much – my dad hated psychiatrists aggressively, and my uncle wasn't much better off," Jane sipped from her drink with a sour look completely unrelated to the smooth burn. "I'm a fucking doctor with profiling training and _I _still don't know what the fuck was wrong with me. Just didn't talk. Just didn't."

"... is that why you're so quiet?"

Jane barked out a dark laugh.

"Hell, yeah it was – along with a shit ton of trauma and crap like that galore," Jane bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile. "Emily once told me – and Hotch agrees – that I'm some kind of genius when it comes to words. Fuck that, it's not that I'm all that smart – it's just that I've spent so long with what I wanted to say stuck in my throat – _"_

Jane cut herself off.

She did that a lot.

"Emily thinks that I'm good at words," She parsed out slowly, deliberately. "I don't think so. The words get stuck and twisted and turned around so much – I have to force them to do what I wanted. I have to try _so hard –"_

She stomped on the words.

"Six years is a long time," Alex said, because she didn't know what else _to_ say – didn't know how to handle this bitter, drunk Jane – fighting every vowel and every consonant. "Six years is a long time not to talk to peers, teachers. That would've been first grade? Kindergarten?"

"First grade," Jane nodded, studying a photo on Blake's wall. "The first day a boy named Rhys Olivier sat down right across from me, dumped a pile of crayons on my drawing, and told me my Hello Kitty shirt was stupid – I just about decked him. Called him stupid right back." Jane's lips twitched, as if she almost wanted to smile. "Dad saw it as proof that he was right, that it would sort itself out. He was a stubborn man like that."

"I'm glad it did."

Alex couldn't figure out why Jane was telling her this. What it had to do with Mother's Day.

"So I admire you, is the point," Jane read her mind, tipping back the rest of her drink. "I admire you, but also _screw you."_

Jane swiped the rest of Alex's drink.

"What are you trying to say?" Alex prompted her gently – because it was all making sense now.

Jane was quiet because she didn't trust people – but she was also quiet because words were _hard_ for her. And between the amnesia and the childhood speech disorder – she couldn't lay things out, couldn't _talk_ about things even though she wanted to. _Couldn't, _because she was emotional and frustrated and the words wouldn't come out.

And Blake could tell it was killing her.

"Take your time," She took the glass from Jane's unresisting hands, knowing that the alcohol wasn't helping. "Come on, you've got this. What are you trying to say?"

Jane sealed her lips, jaws clenched.

"Selective Mutism and Preschool Language Disorder, along with many other speech disorders, are aggravated by stress and anxiety," Alex prompted her gently. "And I've seen you annoyed and irritated, Jane. Even pissed all to hell you can talk circles around any of us – other than Reid, that is."

That got a smile, a wry one.

"So whatever it is right now – whatever it is that you can't say right – it's messing you up inside," Alex continued, reaching over to take Jane's hands in hers, locking eyes. "And I know you want to say it, because otherwise you wouldn't be here. So take a deep breath. Calm down – I'm not going to judge you – not going to get mad or upset. I just want to hear what you have to say, alright?"

Jane closed her eyes. Took a long, deep breath.

And centered herself.

"When I was sixteen," She finally spoke, her voice barely over a whisper. "My brother Casey died."

Alex skimmed her thumbs in gentle circles over the back of Jane's hands.

"I was at school, junior year," She continued, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "Rhys and I were arguing – he wanted to skip class, but I had a Chem test that block and I told him that if I didn't get valence electrons down in the next half hour my world was gonna end."

She laughed bitterly, shortly. Sardonically. Then she sucked in a deep breath, clenched her eyes tight.

"I got the call down to the office right when I was about to sit down to take it," Jane pushed the words out – each one tight. "I – He said – Casey –"

She took in another deep breath.

"Casey got shot," Jane gritted her teeth. "At school. His senior year, on his way to class – just like that."

"I'm sorry," Alex squeezed her hands. Jane seemed to muster up the courage to keep going.

"We all came home, that day," Jane continued. "I'd heard that a bunch of people all up the east coast were dying – getting killed, getting shot – but it was Michigan, and we shared a _time zone_ but that was _it _but –"

She stopped. Alex felt her thighs strain with how her legs were bent, but ignored it.

"Dad was already home when I got there – we got there, me and my brother, Bree. Uncle Rob would've been there, but he was on a cruise in Alaska and – we were just waiting on Ada – she had to come back from Brown," Jane sucked in another breath shakily. "My Mom –"

The words got stuck again.

Alex thought back, thought back on everything she knew about Jane, about her past. Her family was dead, she was an amnesiac. She was a prominent businesswoman along with being a doctor and agent –

Businesswoman ... she worked at –

_Colemyer._

"You're a Colemyer, aren't you."

Jane smiled, small and wry and sad. Thankful that she didn't have to say the words.

"Ryden, technically – but my mother was," She shrugged, weary. Inhaled deeply. "I – after. _After _– I was in Chicago. For a – for a year. Maybe two. Time got blurry."

"After your family died," Alex checked, trying not to be insensitive. Jane nodded.

"I met – I met this girl. Woman. Her name was Amina – I called her Vine – and … we were friends, almost. In the way that two very broken teenagers are friends. She … I don't know if ... she might have even cared about me, once, but after – well, I did what you're never supposed to do when you have a friend like that."

"You slept with the wrong guy," Alex guessed. Jane even laughed at that, and at her sarcastic tone.

"Oh _yes_ I did," Jane giggled in the melancholy way of the not-quite sober. "It was her_ brother."_

Alex winced. Jane just laughed even more, slightly hysterical.

"Yeah, but I was young and stupid and he was – was like gravity. Holding me together. Keeping me grounded," Jane scrubbed at her face. "I might have even loved him. Really, actually loved him."

"... what happened to him?" Alex braved herself to ask.

"He died, and I got –" Jane ended that sentence sharply.

Alex waited. She was patient.

"After I punched Morgan a couple times I had to go talk to Jack," Jane switched tracks, steadying herself. "He gave me a Mother's Day card – I had to talk to him. And I didn't know how to tell him, this little boy, that –"

She scrubbed at her face. Then she, slowly and deliberately, shrugged off her shirt with quivering fingers.

Blake's breath caught in her throat.

"I don't remember all of these," Jane ran her fingers over the patchwork of scars over every inch of her skin. "But this one – this one I remember."

The jagged, deep line ran from one side of her stomach to the other, and it's intention could not have been more clear.

"Was …" Now the words stuck in Blake's throat. "Was it –"

"Danny's? That was his name, Daniel," Jane finished for her, eyes dead in her face. "I don't know. I hope so – timeline … I hope so. But I still don't – still don't remember –"

Alex swallowed, or tried to around the lump in her throat.

Jane took a sip, and their eyes met. And it was – it was so much like when Alex looked in the mirror. Looked at herself, saw the void that Ethan left in her heart, echoed in her soul – dulled in her eyes.

Jane's eyes.

"Your son died," Jane spoke, her voice whisper soft. "Ethan."

Alex swallowed.

"He was nine," She confided, thinking of her baby boy's tired, dying smile. "He was nine."

"My baby …" Jane tangled her fingers in her hair, slumping over. "My baby didn't even make it to their first breath. I – when she ripped my baby out of me … I never even got to hold them."

Alex passed her the bottle. Jane accepted it gratefully, morosely.

"I –" Jane took a swig, struggled for more words. "I can't be his mother. Jack's I told him I could be, and I lied. I can't – I just –"

"No, Jane, you'll be a great mom," Alex assured her. "You already _are."_

"No, I'm not."

"Jane –"

"No, I'm _not – _because _how can I be?_" Jane _shouted._ "Because how can I be this smart, wonderful, _perfect_ child's mother when I – I don't even know _how!"_

She was crying. Jane was crying.

"How can I be a mom? _How?!"_ Jane forced herself up, wobbly – one hand clenched around the neck of the bottle and the other braced against the wall. "How can I be a mom when I don't even know what that _looks_ like? My mom was a _suicidal crazy person_ who nearly _killed _me – who killed _all of us."_

At some point, Alex'd stood too. Her hands were on Jane's shoulders, trying to keep her steady.

"Alex, I can't be a mom – I can't _protect him,"_ Jane's fingers scrambled across Blake's forearms, the bottle tumbling out of her fingers and miraculously not shattering. "My mom never protected me, and I didn't protect Haley, and I _already failed –"_

"You haven't failed –"

_"Yes,_ I _did,"_ Jane choked out. "I failed because _my baby is dead."_

Alex realized she was crying. They both were.

"My baby is dead – He killed my baby and I never even got to _hold them –"_ Jane was wailing. Alex felt her own cheeks grow damp. "How can I be a mom –!"

The words caught in Jane's throat again. The words stopped.

The sobs didn't.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my lord!**

**I'm not sure y'all understand ****_how many times I rewrote this chapter._**** Quite literally upwards of six times, I wrote and then rewrote this chapter and the next. This was ****_incredibly difficult_**** to get out.**

**Thank you all for your patience. I've got more in the works, I promise – and this chapter was extra long to make up for the wait. Nearly double my usual – you're welcome.**

**All my love and a little bit more,**

**– Milo Of The Key**

**P.S. The song that Jane beats up her punching bag/Morgan to is called 'You're Gonna Go Far, Kid' by The Offspring. If you care to give it a listen, you'll realize why it was just ****_perfect_**** for that brawl.**


	47. 47

"Get out."

Andy doesn't even twitch at the venom in her voice.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my face, you slimy son of a bitch," She bared her teeth at him, itching to claw the stupidly calm expression off his face. "The fuck are you spewing, you bastard?"

"Now you're just being dramatic," He drawls, all teeth and condescension. "And just when I thought you'd grown up – apparently not."

"That's why you took my blood," Her fingers dug into her palm. "That's why – no. No, this isn't happening. I'm leaving – have a good, miserable, _criminal _life."

And she stands up, grabs her purse. Gets ready to get the fuck outta Dodge, because _she didn't have to sit through this bullshit._

"No, you're not," Andy shuts her down. The sharpness of his voice freezes her in place despite herself. "You're going to sit right back down, and you're going to listen to everything I have to say."

"And why –" She gritted her teeth, her jaw straining. " – would I do that?"

A _click_ sounds behind her. A familiar one … and as she turns glacially slowly to face him again, she places the sound. It was the sound of a safety being released, a gun safety.

A gun aimed right at her uterus-less stomach was the reason why, apparently.

"Seriously?" She deadpanned, thoroughly unimpressed even as a thrum of aprehension reverberates through her bones. "You're gonna aim your gun at a federal agent, _Andy?"_

"I'm a good shot, and you know that, Ivy," Andy tilted an eyebrow, unimpressed with her facade of apathy. "Saved your life a time or two – you should be thankful."

"The only thing I'm _thankful _for is that in Illinois the statute of limitation for assault and battery is ten years," Jane deadpans, refusing to sit back down. "That way I can't be charged for the shit you dragged me into, _Andrew."_

"I didn't 'drag' you into anything, _Dr. Hart,"_ Andy rolled his eyes, beckoning with the muzzle of his gun for her to sit. "You just stuck your nose where it didn't belong and got caught in the middle – now sit down, V, before I put a bullet in your gut."

She sat.

"You're lucky that table is between your little pistol and the eyeline of the rest of this cafe," Jane scowled. "Though I imagine that was intentional – you've become a smarter criminal, if nothing else."

"I've had two decades to perfect it," Andy smiled charmingly. "Glad you're listening to reason."

"Reason, bullet," Jane pretended to weigh the two of them, hands up like a set of scales. _"Hmmm,_ not quite sure those are the same thing."

"You're as smart assed as ever," Andy laughed, actually looking nostalgic. "I actually missed that, do you realize? I might have never liked you, or particularly given a fuck about you, V, but you were always funny. More than once I'd come back after a long day to find the three of you busting a gut over your latest bout of crazy. Amina doesn't laugh like that anymore. I don't think you do, either."

"Please don't tell me that you've coerced me into an uncoforterable cafe chair to _reminise,"_ Jane scowled caustically. "If you're going to go on about 'the good ol' times' then you can go ahead and shoot me. That way, if I pass out, I'll get out of this completely unecessary bonding moment."

"Didn't miss the sass, though," Andy curled his lip. "Now, I'm going to put my gun away. And you're not going to do anything stupid – like call for help or reach for your phone or get up – because we both know how fast I am at drawing my peice, and there's no need for this to get messy."

"Whatever you say, Andy," She smiled winningly, cloying sugar dripping from each word. "It's a pain to stitch myself up. And I borrowed this shirt – hate to return it with blood and bullet holes, you know?"

"Good," The click of the safety sounded once again. "But you would've stayed even if I hadn't pointed a gun at you, V – we both know that."

"Do we? And why is that?"

"Because you want to hear what I have to say," He answered evenly, a hint of his smugness shining through despite himself. "You're too nosy – you always need to know exactly what's going on."

And yeah, sure. That's fair. Ivy, after having spent _so long_ not asking questions – right up until her brother was _shot_ right in front of her, knew better than to keep her silence. To accept things as how they are, to _trust_ with no eveidence to. But that was a distrustful, broken teenage girl who saw her world crumble in front of her – that was Ivy. She's not Ivy.

"That's who I _used _to be," She rebutted sharply, thinking on her leap of faith. To trust Rin, to trust Jay – even though she didn't know that she could. "I know better now. Cats only have so many lives, even if they've curiosity tenfold."

"You _knew_ better, V," He shook his head knowingly. The nickname stung – it was Danny's nickname for her. What he called her, even when he was sprawled out on the alley pavement, bleeding from a dozen bulletwounds in his gut. "Cuz you got a system restart and returned to factory settings – but you've rebooted your backup harddrive. You can't just dismiss your burning curiosity, I know you better than that."

"You –" Jane cocked a severe eyebrow at him, reluctantly impressed (pushing back the echo of a memory – of Danny _dead)_. "– have been spending _far_ too much time with Amina. That techy metaphor sounded just like it came out of her mouth – and like _fuck_ you know me, asshole. Five hours in an airport and you're suddenly my Jiminy Cricket? Screw you."

"I met _Jane_ in an airport," Andy answered with a smidge of annoyance hidden in his expression. "You're not just Jane anymore, V. You're Ivy, too – and with that comes your nosiness, and your secret keeping – your rebellion. Your _fear._ So, yeah – you were gonna stick around anyway. Hear me out. Because you've got too much of who you were in you not to."

"You're full of shit, you know that?" She laughed darkly, even if part of her knows he's right. "Man, Andy. Why the hell are you here?"

"Because I have to be."

_"Bullshit,"_ She shook her head, all the pieces falling into place. Her temper flaring, sick of dancing around with words. There was a reason she wasn't a profiler – she left that shit to Aaron. "No – you know what? I call _bullshit._ Because I figured it out, Andy. I know what you and Amina were planning. I know what the two of you were up to, what you dragged my _now dead_ uncle and ex-boyfriend into. I figured it out."

"Oh, did you?" Andy tilted his head, not believing her. "And what – exactly – were we doing?"

"You said it yourself –" Jane held back a snarl. "Amina doesn't give a fuck about me. She only cares about her brother, about Danny."

"I didn't say that," He shot down, bristling. "I didn't fucking _say_ that."

"Oh, didn't you?"

"No, I said nothing about how Amina felt about you – you just jumped to conclusions like the emotionally damaged moron you are."

"Okay, that is _rich_ coming from you, Mr. Arsonist," Jane snarked back. Bold of the pot to call the kettle fucked up – glass houses and bullets and all. "And what evidence do you have that Amina _doesn't _want my head on a silver platter? I got her brother _killed."_

"Because she wouldn't be this angry at you if she didn't care," He spoke levelly, tone perfectly calm and even – and completely false. "Because you and Amina wouldn't be _so furious_ at each other if you didn't still love each other, like you used to. _Even after everything._ Abandonment hurts, Ivy. Betrayal _hurts._ But it only hurts if you _give a shit _first. _Amina gives a shit about you."_

Ivy – no, no. _Jane. _Jane felt an itch under her skin, a tension in her gut. She wanted to claw his face off.

"When did you get so wise, oh Dreadlocked One?" She bit out, back on the defensive. "So we're both pissed at each other – we've got that right. She screwed me over, I screwed her – but that doesn't mean she gives a shit about me."

"A decade and a half of being Jane Doe's friend, two years of being Ivy's – you think she doesn't give a shit?" Andy rolled his eyes, picking lint off of his leather jacket. "She didn't _have_ to be your friend, you know. I could've mugged you in a back alley, stuck a needle in your arm, then disappeared off the map. She was the one who wanted to play the long game – who wanted her _friend _back."

"She's not _here,"_ She turns to face him fully, snarl across her lips unbridled. _"You_ are."

"Because for _some_ fucking reason, _I'm_ the levelheaded one here," Andy rolled his eyes. "Are you gonna be catty this whole convo?"

"Probably," She told him honestly, cocking an eyebrow a la Hotchner. "But we've gotten off topic – because I still have you figured out."

"Oh, you want to show off your brilliance, do you?" Andy gave her a mocking smile, which she gracefully returned. "Well then: lay it out. Dazzle me with your bullshit – give me the ol' Razzle Dazzle."

(She had to give him points for the _Chicago_ reference.)

A curl of grim satisfaction unfurled in her gut, knowing that he doubted her – that she would be able to verbally _slap_ the _smug look_ off his face. She leaned closer, as if she was imparting a great secret.

"I did figure it out, you dickwad," Jane's grin split her face, hiding her own fury – because their _fucking heist got Rob and Rhys killed_. "Bit by bit – and then suddenly it all clicked, just now. You and Amina took my blood so you could pose as my baby's parents. Well, Amina as the mother and you as the husband – because Danny didn't keep any blood samples just _laying around_ and a single mother wasn't gonna get custody if her child was already in a good home. Am I right?"

Andy's jaw muscle jumped. She was on the right track – she _knew it._

"And Amina's little long con?" She pushed forward, digging in. "She tried to get me to trust her – to get my blood by donation or when I was asleep, but she realized it wouldn't work – I never let her that close."

She laughed, the sound fake and dead even in her own ears.

"So she needed a plan – the FBI had found out who I was, and it was only a matter of time till Liber found out, too; so you set the stage, using the players who were sympathetic enough and not-FBI enough to play along. The mom was gonna be Ten, wasn't it? Before you got her _killed," _She tilted her head, coy. "With Rhys Olivier as the father. That way, if everything went sideways – which it _definitely _did – you and Amina were in the clear for take two. Hell, you even got my Uncle in on it to keep Liber off your trail and distracted, and to take custody if my blood was ever linked to the Colemyer Massacre."

Andy rolled his shoulders. She knew that tell.

"See, but you miscalculated," Jane pursed her lips, a tight upward tilt to her lips. It strained her cheeks. "You made a mistake, because all of this banked on my baby being in the system, with records for you to hack and blood for you to test. You didn't find anything – _that's_ why you're here."

She sat back. Let her faux cheer drop like a hot coal. Let her disgust bubble up and boil over – because _her Uncle was RIGHT THERE_ _but now he's DEAD._

"So you figured it all out, then?" Andy gave a smile of his own, with too many pearly white teeth flashing preditorially. Seeing her anger and fighting back against it. "Good, it would've been a pain to explain. Why didn't you track us down, confront us? You know how to find us, V – Amina left you a back door. Why not tear us a new one on your own terms?"

"Because I was hoping you'd realize it was a fruitless endeavor, and that I'd never have to see your sorry face again," Jane spat. Fingers curled into claws, digging into the tabletop. "Too bad, I was _so close."_

"Glad we were of the same mindset, then," He shrugged with forced dismissal. "I'd be fine if I'd never seen your scratching-post of a face ever again, either."

She flipped him off, sipping at her shitty cocoa – long gone tepid.

"You're fighting a useless fight," Jane shifted tracks as she drained the rest of her cup. "Trying to fix Vine and my relationship? I'm an _FBI agent,_ Andy. The only reason I'm not arresting you is because you'd shoot out my kneecap before I could reach my phone."

"Indeed I could," Andy smirked, proud of his marksmanship – even as he noted her evasion with sharp, fathomless eyes. "Why do you think I crashed your coffee date? Even with your Suit in Pakistan, you're hardly ever alone or unarmed. This way: it's less complicated."

"Fuck you," Is all she can say to that. "But you're avoiding the point. I'm telling my team everything, and the next time I see you or Vine I'm slapping handcuffs on your wrists and shooting you with your own gun. This is an awfully big risk you're taking for no payout."

"You think I show you my face just to turn you two frenimies into _friends?"_ Andy scoffed. "Hell no. I'm doing this for the kid."

_"There is no kid."_

"Like _hell _there isn't," He snarled right back. "I saw you that day, Ivy. I saw you pregnant as fuck and I _saw your water break._ You carried that kid to term, and it was Daniel's."

"You don't know _anything,"_ She hissed at him. "You don't know _anything –"_

"No, _you _don't," Andy clenched his fists, a second away from decking her. "And that's all your damn fault – you haven't looked for the kid. You lost your memory, and that's a damn good excuse – but you've had your memory back for_ a year and a half_ and you've still done _nothing."_

"Oh, like what _you've _done has been _any more effective,"_ She barked out a dark, cynical grate of laughter. "Yeah – master plan or not, you fucked up. You made a grave miscalculation, and now you're stuck asking little ol' me for help. Pathetic."

"I fucked up," He repeated, furious. _"I_ fucked up."

"Yeah, you fucked up," Jane laughed sharply. "You know what your _mistake_ was, Andrew? What your _grave miscalculation_ was?"

_"What."_ He grit out, coiled. But she could tell – he already knew.

"That you were banking on my baby being _alive."_

Andy's face could've been carved from stone. Despite herself, Jane drew some vindictive pleasure from it – that she would not be the only one to _suffer._

"Amina said –"

"Amina says a lot of things," Jane cut him off sharply. "But the fact is that my baby is dead. No matter what Amina thought, or thought she saw – my baby is dead, and that's it. And you know it – you claim to know me so well? Do you think I'd be sitting back, doing _nothing,_ if my baby was still out there?"

Andy didn't reply.

"So. _Kindly –"_ Jane gestured widely to the door. _"– fuck off."_

He didn't move.

She stood. Turned to leave. With a sharp motion she grabbed her satchel and turned to leave – not letting him stop her.

Andy tried anyway.

She broke his nose, dislocated his thumb, and rammed her knee into his crotch.

* * *

_"You seem distracted. Did your meeting not go well?"_

Jane was wrenched out of her thoughts, and she smiled sheepishly at Rin. The Skype call was a bit blurry, distance and camera quality and desert sand making the image quality poor – but Jane could still see how much he'd tanned, and how long his hair was getting.

And his beard. _Damn_ his scruff was getting _considerate._

"Yeah – no," She gathered herself, realizing he'd asked a question. "No, the meeting – she had to cancel. We never even met up, she sent me her findings for Spinner and said we could reschedule."

_"But that's not why you're distracted," _Hotch pointed out, his eyebrow creasing with worry. _"Mari, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything."_

And she almost told him. It was right there, on the tip of her tongue –

But she couldn't. Not –

"Hotch …" She toyed with her pen, absently flicking the clip. The quiet _ting_ was soothing, familiar. "You – Do you remember the Pig Farm? Up in Canada?"

_"... Hard to forget,"_ He spoke softly after a moment. _"Are you having nightmares?"_

"No, it's not that –" She chewed her lip. "Do you remember how you got mad at me? Cuz I'd gotten surgery, and hadn't told you. Hadn't taken it easy?"

_"I remember,"_ He nodded. Let her gather herself – he was good like that. God, was she thankful she was dating a profiler. They were _patient._

"I – part of my … my _mutiliation,"_ She forced the word out. "Part of my mutilation was that my uterus got torn up. _Beyond repair _torn up. But … we – _I_ – didn't realize that, at first. There was a chance, a chance that the damage could be repaired. That my body could regenerate some of the damage. But … it was too severe. It couldn't heal. So … I just had to have it removed. Hysterectomy – taking out an ovary as well, the damage was so severe."

_"Jane … I'm sorry,"_ Hotch reached for the webcam, as if he could touch her through the screen and over thousands of miles of ocean and sand. _"I'm so sorry. The Reaper, Foyet – when he'd kidnapped you … held you at knife point – he implied that. About your scars. But I didn't know, not for sure._

"I –" Jane just swallowed, not sure how – how to process that. That the man who scarred her face would – would've _known._ "God, Rin – did he –?"

It was a good thing he cut her off, because she had no idea how she was going to finish that sentence.

_"He was using it as a taunt,"_ He focused her. _"He was trying to torment me, torment _us._ And he's dead now, Jane. He's _dead."

"What did he say?" She can't help but ask.

Hotch balked.

"What did he _say,_ Rin?" She pressed. Because if he had known –

_"He … he said that you'd never be able to bear my children,"_ Hotch reluctantly reported. _"Jane, he was just trying to get me mad – to make me fight back, to get pissed and make a mistake –"_

"But he was right."

Hotch fell silent.

"He was _right,"_ She choked. "Aaron, you know – you know I can never give you more. I can't – I can't give Jack a sibling, or you a child – why the _hell _would you even _want_ me? Why would – Hotch, you deserve –"

_"I'm selfish enough to think that I deserve _you," He cut into her ramblings. And even through the shitty screen quality … his eyes were _so kind._ _"Jane, I – you and I have gone through _so much_ together. Do you think for a moment that something as insignificant as your womb is going to make me back out now?"_

She swallowed back a sob in her throat, pressing a wrist to her mouth to muffle the sound.

_"Jane, I already have a wonderful, perfect, amazing son,"_ Rin laughed, his own voice thick. _"And as much as I had thought about having another, one day – that won't make or break anything."_

She srubbed at her face.

_"And anyway,"_ Hotch laughed, a teasing lilt to his words. _"Don't you think it's a bit early to talk about kids? I mean – Jane, we haven't even gone on our first _date_ yet."_

A startled laugh tore it's way out of her, restarting her heart.

"You're lucky you'll still be_ getting_ that date, Agent Hotchner," She lied, giving him a convincing smile. "Did I tell you? Jack joined his school's pee-wee track team. He demands I take pictures during practice – and meets, eventually – so he can show you. I'll attach the first round to an email after the call. He's adorable, and oddly obsessed with the shot put."

_"They have _shot put_ in pee-wee track and field?"_ Hotch asked incredulously.

And everything was back to how it was.


	48. 48

The lake was wide and gorgeous and crystalline as far as the eye could see. Mountains loomed in the distance, layered and layered and rising up to kiss the smattering of fluffy clouds in the sapphire sky.

The only sounds around him were the calls of birds and the hum of insects. Ducks passed by below him, a mother leading her own little flock. Hotch took the time to watch them pass, his hands tucked deeply into his trouser pockets, feeling the cool breeze skim over his collar, tossing his tie with a particularly strong gust.

Idly, he realized that he didn't know how he got there.

There was a rustle of leaves to his left, branches being pushed aside and whipping back. The padding of soft footsteps over the large rocks, the occasional splash of water.

He didn't turn, because some deep, primal part of him knew it wasn't a threat. That whoever was coming, would never hurt him. Or the ducks passing by, nipping at the insects skimming the water's still surface.

There's giggling, then, close by him – and the rustling splash of someone sitting on the large rock he was standing on, dipping their toes in the water. He allows his gaze to drift from the far shore to the ducks, pecking at the brightly colored toenails of the girl at his feet – nibbling at the coral pink and baby blue as if they were decadent bugs to be enjoyed.

The girl giggled every time the birds ducked down, amused by the tickling of their beaks.

And then she looked up, an unblemished face with wild curly hair framing it – oh so familiar bright eyes accented by thick lashes.

"About time you paid me some attention, Agent Hotchner," Mari Ryden laughed, nudging his calf with her shoulder. "We don't have all day."

* * *

"So this is in my head," He mused, tearing his eyes away from the hallucination-girl laying on a hallucination-towel to gaze out over the hallucination-beach – a sudden shift away from the hallucination-rocks. "I thought so."

"But didn't _know _so," Mari quipped, wiggling her toes and digging them into the gritty sand. "Glad to be of some assistance, then. What gave it away?"

"The part where my girlfriend's teenage self appeared before me and called me 'Hotchner'," Hotch replied dryly, his lips twitching as he squatted to sit on the edge of the towel. "Is this a dream?"

Mari shrugged in a slow, languid motion that reminded him so strongly of Jane he had to bite the inside of his cheek. "Maybe," She tilted her head to look over at him, squinting behind her aviators. "Maybe not. Depends on your definition of dream."

"Am I asleep?" He tried again, studying her – the 'her' that his brain produced.

She was so _young._

"You're not sleeping, no," She shook her head, watching as the fluffy clouds skimmed across the sky overhead. "But you're not awake, either."

"So I'm unconscious," Hotch nodded, wracking his brain – trying to think back to the last thing he remembered. He couldn't manage it. "But not asleep."

Mari just hummed in acknowledgement, trailing her fingers through the sand idly. He tried to backtrack, tried to remember where he was before all of this started. But he – he just couldn't. It was as if he just … _appeared._ Here. Here, which was –

"Are we in Vermont?" He blinked, for the first time really _seeing_ where he was.

"Technically? No. We're in your head," Mari laughed as she pushed up on her elbows, sunglasses perched low on the bridge of her nose as she peered over them. "What you see before you is your _memory _of Vermont."

"This is where Jane took – _you_ took – Gideon," Hotch felt his memories trickle in. "Jack and I went on vacation with you here last summer, in August. For her birthday. Your birthday."

"I did take you here," Mari nodded, standing – her legs shining in the sun from the shimmer of sunscreen on her skin, ankles dusted with powdery granules. "And we stayed in a cabin we rented on the lakefront, just over there. _You_ were worried about price."

"And _you_ had to remind me that you're a multi-billionaire now," Hotch nodded, laughing at the memory of Jane's exasperation. "I couldn't argue with that."

"No, of course not," Mari laughed along, pulling off her oversized shirt to reveal a swimsuit underneath – she tossed the ratty tee aside heedlessly. Locking her hands around his elbows, she tugged him to standing. "I'm always right – or didn't you know?"

She skirted around him, then, and suddenly – with a couple steps, a war cry, and tiny hands on the small of his back – they both went tumbling into the water.

* * *

Hotch surfaced with an indignant, sputtering cough – expelling the water from his nose with a forceful snort. He was glad, at least, that the not-dream had changed so he was no longer in his suit – instead a rashguard and trunks. With a laugh, Mari – who was above him, on a raft – dropped a baseball cap on his head.

With a couple strong strokes, he made it to the ladder and pulled himself up on the sun-warmed wood, a hand going to the hat to secure it more firmly to his head.

"Would you _stop _that?" He asked, a little irritated. "If you keep changing where we are –"

"If _I_ keep changing?" She cut him off before he could finish the half-threat. "Hotchner, _I'm_ not doing anything. This is _your_ head. I'm just how _you_ see young-Jane-slash-Mari – I don't have any control here. No one to blame but yourself."

Hotch ignored her.

He settled himself with his feet in the water, flicking water off his face with sopped fingers. He looked around, at the great expanse of water around them. They were in the middle of the lake.

A lake in Vermont.

"Why Vermont?"

Mari sat next to him, their shoulders brushing. "Hmm?"

"Why Vermont?" He repeated, eyeing her. "If I'm in my head, then something out there has made me retreat into it – trauma or drugs or injury or _something._ But why retreat here? I've only ever been here once."

"Maybe it's because you feel safe here?" Mari offered, disinterested. "Because you were here with your son, with a woman you loved?"

Hotch considered it, but it still didn't _quite_ make sense. Didn't _quite _line up. "But why not somewhere else I feel safe?" He asked her, frustrated by how cryptic she was being. "Like my office, or the jet? Rossi's house or yours – why here?"

Mari studied him, and with a jolt he realized that at some point, the three lines Foyet had carved into Jane's skin had appeared on the teenager's face. It made her look older, more weary. He didn't like it.

"Hotchner, where were you before you were here?" She asked – cutting him off before he could open his mouth again. "No – I don't mean the beach, or on the rocks. I mean before you ended up in your head. What were you doing that landed you _here?"_

"I don't know," He answered honestly after a moment. "I don't know how I got here. Only that I did."

"And why don't you want to get out?" She asked, just as keen.

And it struck him. That he didn't. He was in no rush to leave – he was safe here. "I guess I don't know that either," He mused, unbothered.

"Not good enough," Mari shook her head, her frown pulling at the scars on her cheek. "Not good enough. C'mon, Hotchner. Where were you? _Why aren't you there now?"_

Hotch thought back, thought _hard._ Where …?

A lily floated past them in the water, it's stem cut short. It bobbed, and something about it stirred a memory.

"JJ got flowers," Hotch remembered suddenly. "JJ got sent flowers."

And then a memory shard came rushing back.

* * *

"Hotch," Reid rushed into his office, worry pinching his face. "Hotch, JJ just got sent flowers, and we think that they're from the Replicator."

He stood sharply, dropping his pen and taking long strides into the bullpen where Garcia, JJ, and Jane were already gathered. Jane was on the phone, talking in a low, urgent tone to whoever was on the other end.

"I was sent this," JJ spoke up when she saw him, passing him a bagged envelope and note with her name written on it neatly. "And the message – 'Zugzwang' –"

"Isn't that what –" Hotch turned to look at Reid, who was nodding grimmly.

"That's what Diane Turner told me on the payphone before she kidnapped Maeve," He affirmed. "Jane's on the phone with Maeve now, making sure she stays with her parents for a couple days."

"Good," Hotch nodded, glancing at Jane as she seemed to end the conversation. "I'll update Strauss. Round table room in ten."

* * *

And with a lurch he was back on the raft, watching the lily just bob by.

"We were on the Replicator's case," Hotch frowned. "But that all was months ago. JJ got those flowers months ago – Diane Turner killed herself and almost killed Maeve _months ago."_

"The parts of the Replicator case with Diane Turner and Donnie Bidwell were months ago, yes," Mari nodded, unbothered. "But this is your head, Hotchner. Everything that happens in here is just your brain trying to put things back in order again."

"By reminding me of cases months in the past?" He asked incredulously.

"Memory's a funny thing, we both know that," Mari gave him a wry look, then stood and stretched – groaning with satisfaction at the pull of her muscles. She left wet footprints on the raft's wood. "But the Replicator wasn't going to give up, and wasn't going to stop. Him leading you to that warehouse full of photos was a taunt and we both know it. He wasn't going to give up the game, and nor were we."

"So we kept working on it," Hotch nodded, cursing his unreliable memory. "We kept working on it … but we had other cases, did other things –"

And like that, he fell into another memory.

* * *

Jane was half asleep in the crook of his arm, but Hotch couldn't slow his brain down enough to follow after her.

The light hum of New York traffic was distant inside their hotel room, but a stream of light came in through a crack in the curtains to spotlight Jane's work bag and heeled boots – her things all laid out for the Colemyer Estate board meeting the next day.

Ever since Jane began to take on more and more of the Colemyer responsibilities she had been left with, their time off had been eaten up. He had finally just caved and brought Jack along, hoping the two – and sometimes three – of them could tour the city when she wasn't working.

If only he could sleep …

Jane, as if sensing his line of thought and too-busy brain, stirred.

"Y'kay?" She murmured into his bicep, and he tried to keep his laugh quiet enough as not to wake Jack in the next room.

"Yeah, I'm fine," He skimmed his hand over her shoulder. "I'm fine."

She settled down more, only to be jolted awake when his phone went off –

_Sean?_

* * *

"That's right," Hotch connected the dots – standing back on dry land, on the streets of New York, in a polo and slacks. "Sean – Sean got mixed up with the PMMDA overdoses and poisonings, and I had to leave Jack with Jane to gather the team to deal with it."

"And I hopped on a train with Jack, bringing him back to DC to stay with Jessica," Mari nodded, her young face accented sharply against an abrupt color shift to Jane's typical black attire. She rocked back on her heels, studying him. "But you're still not connecting things, Hotchner. You're settling back, letting time rush by while you half-assed try and put things in order. _What are you missing?"_

"Sean's safe! In custody!" He snapped at her, feeling his indignation rise. "And Jane is with Jack, because Jessica – Jessica had to deal with Roy because his dementia was hitting him badly. When the Replicator –"

He cut himself off, felt more pieces fall into place.

"When the replicator _killed Strauss,_ Jane and Jack were safe," Mari finished for him, cocking a hip with a raised eyebrow. "Man, I mean – I get where your priorities lie, but _damn_ Hotchner. You would think that you'd have a little more heart for your Section Chief."

"She's my boss," He dismissed, trying to ignore the curl of guilt in his gut. "They're my family."

"Aww," Mari smiled sardonically as the scene shifted. "You consider me _family."_

And in an instant they were in the round table room, with the whole team – from Rossi to Blake – settled in their usual spots. Only Jane was absent, instead Mari propping up a wall beside the screen.

"I thought _they –"_ She tilted a head towards the team, who were engrossed in their files. "– were family, too."

"They are," Hotch shook his head, frustrated. "They are, but –"

"Aaron, we get it," Rossi spoke up then, closing his file with a world weary sigh. "Erin … she was a tough woman to love, to care for."

"And even though she was trying to redeem herself," Blake added, scrubbing a hand along her jaw. "Well …"

"She tried though," Garcia cut in, fingers stilling on her keyboard as she glanced around at all of them with her boundless optimism. "Before she died, she was really trying."

"I always found it funny," Mari cut in, shifting the topic as abruptly as she shifted scenes. "I always found it funny how many references to King Arhur and Camelot crop up in our team's lives. I mean, I know I call Morgan 'LeFey' – and then that was that whole Fisher King debacle – but did you know that Morgan's dad used to read him from The Once and Future King? Or that Garcia used to watch The Sword in the Stone on repeat when she was sick as a kid?"

Not-Morgan and Not-Garcia nodded along, verifying facts that Hotch had forgotten at some point, tibits that had just been left to gather dust in his crowded brain.

"Even _me,"_ Mari laughed sharply. "When I was younger, I used to play at castles and knights with my siblings. Though, I'd suppose that I'm not so much a knight anymore. I'm the Lady of the Lake."

"What?" Hotch turned to her, shocked out of his irritation with a jolt of confusion. The team disappeared, and it was just the two of them in the room. "What do you mean? Why?"

"Because the Lady had two sides, two legends," Mari pushed off the wall. "The first was the modern, classic one – the beautiful lady who gifted Arthur his sword. Kind, loyal – determined and just. That's Mari."

"That implies that you've a second side, one for Jane," Hotch countered, seeing right through. Galvanized at the slight against the woman he loved. "Even though the first Lady sounds just like Jane to me."

"The _second_ Lady," Mari continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Was cruel, vicious. Her name was Nimue, and she trapped Merlin with magic out of malice and hatred. She was cryptic and cruel, acting in her own interests – destructive and devastating."

"That's not Jane," Hotch frowned deeply at her, not liking the conversation at all. "That's not Jane at all."

"No, but it _is _Jane's _lies,"_ Mari smiled softly, knowingly, at him. He felt his blood boil. "Jane is a master of words, when she chooses to use them. Remember, Hotchner, I'm just a manifestation inside your head – my ideas are your ideas. My truths, your truths. You're the one who divided Jane into two sides – two Ladies of the Lake. Truth and lies, kindness and malice, for others and for self – Mari's innocence and Jane's lies."

"Jane lies because she's afraid," Hotch tried to counter, to defend her.

"Oh, Hotchner," Mari shook her head, as if he was a silly child. "Don't we all?"

She stands fully then, striding across the room to stand directly in front of him – her gaze _burning_ into his own.

"But Hotchner – you need to realize what's at stake here."

And suddenly she reaches out and shoves him –

Hotch falls into another memory.

* * *

He's scanning the crowd, pushing through the pedestrians and searching for –

_There._

He dials Dave's number as he runs, shouting Strauss' location and an order for EMTs into the receiver before hanging up, before putting all of his focus on Erin.

"Is he armed?" He asks, because that's the only words that can come out of his mouth when she's swaying like that, _drugged_ like that. "Is he armed?"

But she's having trouble focusing on him, and there's a thin, damning trail of blood coming from her nose. PMMDA.

And he's torn, even as he tries to calm her, because Jane is back in DC with Jack and not here with her bag of tricks – and that's good and bad and horrible and relieving, and Erin Strauss is dying and no one, not the EMTs or Jane, can get there in time.

"He said he's gonna race you home," Erin slurs. "Does that mean anything to you?"

* * *

He's panting, hunched over on his office desk – his heart racing at the memory of Erin dying in his arms and the Replicator taunting him with Foyet and Jane being far away but not close enough –

"You remember," Mari cocked a hip, her smoothed edges sharpened. No, not Mari – Ivy. "Then why are you still here?"

"Is Jack safe?" He demands of her, digging the base of his palms into his temples. "Is Jack _safe?_ Is _Jane?"_

"You're still here," Ivy completely dismisses his worries, and they lock eyes – steel against steel. Apathy against fear. "If you want to know so bad, then _why are you still here?"_

"_Because I can't do this anymore!"_

Silence. Echoing, reverberating silence.

He can't do this anymore. He can't – can't fight a thousand battles and watch his son get dragged into shitty situation after shitty situation because of _him._ He can't watch Jane get wrapped up into conspiracy after plot after conspiracy after _murder_ and –

"Well tough fucking luck," Ivy crossed her arms, entirely unsympathetic. "Grow a pair, Hotchner."

"Shut _up,"_ He growls, reflexive.

"No, _you_ shut up," She shot back, full of vitriol. "Because there was a time. There was a time that you made a _choice –_ no, you know what? There were three. You made three choices, and if you can _look me in the eye_ and tell me you regret even _one _of them – then I'll leave. Let you rot in your own head, where you don't have to _deal_ anymore."

She spread her hands wide – a mocking, bowing invitation. A challenge.

"What _choices?"_ He spat, rising to meet it.

"Choice number one:" Ivy bared her teeth. "Becoming a profiler. Meeting the team, saving lives – _doing something._ Stopping the bad guys before it was too late, before they hit your courtroom. Do you regret that? At the end of it all, _do you regret it?"_

"No," He grit his teeth, dug his nails into the wood of his desk. "To stop them – no."

"Choice number two:" Ivy plunged forward mercilessly. "Having Jack. Being a father –"

"I could never regret that!" Hotch cut her off, indignant and pissed. "_Never."_

"Three:" Ivy stalked towards him, braced her hands on his desk and leaned forward. Glared him down, face to face. "Falling in love with one Dr. Jane Hart."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, so there it is," Ivy smiled, all sour vinegar, rocking back. "You regret ever loving her. Me. Tell me, Hotchner, when was it that you realized that you loved Jane? We both know it was after Haley – you never cheated on her, you kept your eyes front and center until you got the divorce. But when did you realize? When did you _know?"_

"In New York," The words spilled out of him before he could stop them. "In New York, when the bomb went off under Joyner's car – when we got to the hospital, after I collapsed and got treatment …"

He couldn't continue.

"..._Yes?"_ Ivy prompted, her intensity never wavering.

"When I woke up all I wanted to know was that Jane was okay – to _see her,"_ Hotch admitted softly. "Joyner and the team and the bombs and the terrorist attack – in that moment, it all came second. That's when I realized."

His stomach twisted, averts his gaze.

"So I'll ask again," Ivy repeated, voice softer but no less intense. "Do you regret falling in love with me?"

"No," He looks up, voice firm. "No, I don't regret falling in love with you. And I don't regret Jack, or being a profiler, or any other choice that led me right here."

"So you made all the right choices, the right calls," Ivy sat back, satisfied. "But the outcome still wasn't what you wanted. Well then, welcome to life, buddy. I made all the right choices, too – at least you still have Sean. Jack – Jessica. The team."

"You?"

"You tell me," Ivy just shrugged, faux dismissive. "You still have me if you still want me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hotch cocked a brow.

"Two Ladies, Hotchner," Ivy spread her hands wide. "All of Jane's lies – every time you think you uncover one, there's two more you know are still there."

* * *

Hotch was parsing through Strauss' ME report, and trying not to think of all the ways the report would've been more complete if Jane had done it.

Jane was with Jack. That was what was important.

"The Replicator has directly taunted every member of this team," Blake spoke up from where she was hunched over a pad of paper. "Except for Jane, and except for me."

"... That's not true," Jane's voice sounded from behind them, and Hotch was startled to see her. "Sorry, Hotch, I would've called – Roy's doing better, so Jessica could take Jack. I figured I was of more use here."

"What's not true?" JJ asked before he could respond.

"I mean that …" Jane chewed her lip, running her nails over her forearm. A nervous tick – one he recognized. "I mean that I got a taunt, too."

"When?" Hotch asked, turning to face her sharply. "Jane, why didn't you say anything?"

Jane swallowed, averting her gaze. "Six months ago. Right after Maeve nearly died."

The team was thankfully, _cursedly, _quiet.

"What was it?" Hotch asked – pushing aside his doubts and confusion and frustration – all the emotions bubbling up, because _Jane lied_ and she only ever did that when she was scared out of her mind.

"I –" Jane wet her lips, struggling to find her words. "I –"

She can't form the words.

"Jane, what haven't you told us?" He stands, stifling the urge to cross the room and take her hands, as if they were alone. "You know you can tell me anything. Tell _us _anything."

"I –" She tried again. Swallowed roughly. Looked ill. "I couldn't."

"Why not?" He asked, prying gently. Firmly. A boss, not a boyfriend. "Why couldn't you?"

"Because if I told you then you –" Jane cut herself off. Bit her tongue. "I – everything would come tumbling out."

His stomach flip-flopped.

"I just need you to tell me," Hotch finally speaks – not able to promise that he won't be mad or angry or upset – and the team is pretending not to be there, and Jane's already seemed to have blocked them out, but their eyes … "I just need you to tell me, and we'll deal with everything once we catch this guy, okay? I promise."

Jane met his eyes.

She was afraid.

"Lotuses."

She curled in on herself. Flickered her eyes over the team.

"Black Lotuses," She grit her teeth, voice barely audible. "And notes. I've been getting them for years – eight, maybe nine. Over fifty total. And then … another one, different. A note – saying 'Zugzwang.'"

* * *

"So your girlfriend lied to you – welcome to the club," Rossi patted his shoulder as he appeared in his favorite armchair, passing him a not-scotch. "Why do you think I never got a wife number four?"

Hotch glared at the drink.

They were in Rossi's living room, jazz playing softly from the record player.

"You realize I can't actually taste or get buzzed off of this, right?" He asks, because it's that or address what Jane just – or rather, what he just remembered Jane telling him.

That she'd been getting textbook stalker notes and presents for _years._ And that she never told him, even when one of them was relevant to an active and separate case.

That she never _trusted_ him. Never trusted _any_ of them.

"Just because you can't get a buzz, doesn't mean you can enjoy the routine of it all," Rossi cocked his head, smiling knowingly. "And _you're_ avoiding the topic at hand."

"Where is she?" He caves, just slightly, looking around and seeing that no incarnation of Jane was there – for the first time since he fell into his subconscious. "She finally left?"

"Well, I guess your lovely brain figured that if you saw her, you'd just get all worked up and wouldn't think rationally – which would be good for no one," Rossi allowed. "So you get me instead. Aren't you lucky."

They drank in silence, for a long moment.

"She lied, Rossi," He finally spoke, voice croaking. "All those years – she never told me."

"I imagine at first she didn't know that she could _trust _you," Dave pointed out. "Eight or nine years ago, she still felt uncomfortable calling you 'Hotch.' She was a scared young woman who didn't have a proper benchmark on how she was meant to be treated in society. And she was _Jane_ – she probably tried to just ignore it until she couldn't anymore."

"But she trusted me _later,"_ Hotch growled. "We were dating for _years._ Why wouldn't she –"

"'Were'?"

Hotch cut himself off.

"She didn't tell you for a very long time, Aaron," Rossi sighed, not unsympathetically. "And then she was worried that you wouldn't trust her – give her leeway, trust her word afterwards – if you found out. Hotch, even with all this you _know_ her. She was probably trying to figure out the right way to tell you. For _years,_ yes. But she was trying, best she knew how."

"And she never did," Hotch sighed. Hollow. "I shouldn't have been so –"

"Frigid? Robotic?" Rossi provided sardonically. "Happens to the best of us. You weren't angry _at_ her. You were angry _for_ her, and scared for her, too. And you thought that, in your quest to protect her, she was a reliable source of information and aid. Her own self destructive nature proved you wrong – and you reacted. You just reacted."

"Last time one of us 'just reacted' Jane ended up in Vermont selling marmalade and fly fish lures for half a year," Hotch deadpanned. Rossi had the audacity to laugh at that. "Okay – okay. I – We'll hunt this creep down, and I'll talk to Jane about keeping things from me. Okay."

"You're still missing something," Jane's voice sounded from behind him, and he whirled around to see his girlfriend standing there – the scars on her face weeping blood, flowing down her cheek. "Rin, you're still _missing it."_

"What?" He stands to face her. "_What_ am I missing?"

And she smiles, so sadly. So tiredly.

"You're missing how you _got _here."

* * *

"_Are you okay?"_

"We've stabilized," Hotch assured Garcia over the radio.

And then the helicopter started to shake again.

"Brace for impact," The pilot tells them, and they go down.

_Jack – _

_Jane – _

The landing is rough but they make it but then there's _hissing –_

* * *

"The helicopter went down –" Hotch whirled to face Jane – back on the outcropping in Vermont. "Jane. Jane, am I dead?"

He couldn't be, could he?

"No, you're not dead," She laughs dryly. Morosely. Emptily. "You just got jolted around in the landing."

"That – that hissing," Hotch tried to remember – tried to recall. "What was that?"

"You don't know exactly, so I don't know either," Jane cocked her head. "But I think we can both hazard a guess."

* * *

He wakes sharply. And he's not in the helicopter, but Blake is next to him –

"I trust that this covers the last of our arrangement," A man's voice comes from somewhere above him, to his left. He's on the flatbed of a truck, and Blake's still out – he's larger than she is, dosage varies – and their wrists are ziplocked.

He stumbles to his feet with a lurch, crouching protectively over Blake's prone form.

Two men, at the foot of the truck, feet from him. One he recognizes at John Curtis, but the other –

(Something niggled the back of his memory, but between the drugs and the night's low lighting he can't place ...)

"Indeed it does," A slightly scraggly male voice comes, older and calmer. Hotch's vision wavers – the drug still not out of his system completely. "Or it would – had you delivered both of them."

"You said Hotchner no matter what, and the doctor was a bonus," John Curtis growled, dissatisfied. "She didn't get on either helicopter. I _told _you I could only promise one."

"I suppose you did, though I would have distinctly prefered both," The man turned to face him, something in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Agent Hotchner. I believe you and I will have plenty to talk about."

With a plastic shift-click and no space to dodge and a flare of pain, Hotch goes down with a taser bolt to the chest.

* * *

He's gasping, hyperventilating.

Jane's fingers are running through his hair – but his lungs can't seem to fill and –

He doesn't know how long they sit there.

He doesn't know how long he's _been_ there.

"It's okay," Jane's saying – and he realizes that she's been repeating that mantra for … a while. "It's okay. You're okay."

"No, I'm not –" He gasps. Tries to settle. "The team –"

"Is not here to see your freak out – your _well-deserved _freak out," Jane assures him, fingers skimming over his cheek. "It's okay. You're okay. You're scared, Rin. It's okay to be scared."

Deep breaths.

Eventually, after an eternity, he settles.

"Who was that man?" He asks Jane – asks himself. "He was working with the Replicator. They had – some sort of deal."

"He wanted you, and he wanted me," Jane kissed his knuckles. "It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not scared," Hotch denies reflexively. They both know it's a lie.

Jane snorts.

"Rin, you've been kidnapped by an unsub who has complete control over you, and you've been unconscious for who-knows how long," Jane shook her head with exasperation. "You don't know if Blake is okay, in the Replicator's hands. You don't know how the rest of your team is, if Curtis has been stopped. You don't know where Jack is. Where I am. Don't know who else this unsub will target – and Erin Strauss is dead. _You're shitting yourself."_

"Yes, thank you for that astute observation," Hotch spits back, irritation and terror flaring in tandem. "Well put, really."

Jane took one look at his mullish expression and _laughed._

The sound lightened something in his bones, even if his heart remained heavy.

"You realize, now, why you've come here, then," Jane smiled, laughter still ringing in her voice. "Why you've fallen into your own head."

"Because –" He gathered himself. Steeled himself. "Because if I'm right, the man out there – who has me – is the same man who gave you those scars."

Jane took his hand. No trace of her earlier laughter was left on her face.

"And if he felt any sort of affection, real or perceived, for you … then I stand as a direct obstacle in his way – one he will not hesitate to remove." Hotch parsed out – before it struck him.

"Oh," His eyes widened. "I know now. Why I ended up in Vermont. Why my brain took me _here."_

"You always were a clever one," Jane smiled, minute but genuine. "Well, come on then. Don't keep a girl waiting. Why did it take you here?"

"Because here is where I made the choice," Hotch scrubbed at his face, a helpless smile on his lips. "Here, in Vermont, is where I forced his hand."


End file.
